


Roses Over Rivers

by MargaretRose



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Ancient Rome, Canon-Typical Violence, John is a war conquest from Britain, M/M, Patrician!Sherlock, Rating May Change, Slave!John, Slavery, Slow Burn, read between the lines - Freeform, tags added as needed, very small hints of mycroft/lestrade, without creepy implications
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-01
Updated: 2016-02-04
Packaged: 2018-03-10 02:22:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 24,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3273227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MargaretRose/pseuds/MargaretRose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A member of the British army captured by invading Romans, John Watson had no choice. He was now a slave, paraded in one of Rome's largest markets. Luckily for him, a mysterious patrician is in desperate need of a personal slave. John is introduced not only to a strange land, but an even stranger master who drags him all over Rome in what John could only imagine is not proper behavior for a rich man. The lonely Sherlock may not care much for propriety, but even he recognizes that slaves are not proper friends. Right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own any of these characters except the OCs. I do my best to research any historical references, but I mostly rely upon my own knowledge from extensive Latin courses. Any errors are my fault and will be corrected if brought to my attention. Work will not be updated often as I am quite busy with that horrid thing called university. This is also not beta'd and any errors are my own and regrettable.

“Show him in.” He gestured with a lazy wave of his hand. This was the fourth appointment this morning. It was a tedious chore that ultimately had to be completed before anything useful could be begun. There were things to be done today.  
He hesitated, “this is the last one, right?” 

“Yes, sir.” The door swung open, almost ominous in its revelation of the man behind it.

“Valerius Flaccus.”

“Please, no need to be so formal.” Another lazy gesture of the hand accompanied a sudden  
straightening of the spine. It betrayed his surprise. He relaxed almost immediately, sinking back into the chair and trailing his long white fingers on the silky smoothness of the desk. 

His surprise could be contributed to the man’s appearance. His tunic had been recently washed, but it was still unspeakably dirty. It had streaks of green interspersed with the large brown stains. He had been working in a field, probably planting since the season allowed it. His hair, usually combed and washed, looked about twenty shades darker. His hands were held up in supplication, inadvertently showing his ragged and dirty nails. The man had not visited the baths any time recently and it was not the calibre to which he was accustomed.

“I must apologize for my appearance.” His eyes were downcast in shame.

“I fear that has something to do with your visit.” His fingers continued their trail around the desk. The other man watched those pale fingers, fixed on their movement. It was better than meeting his piercing eyes.

“You are correct, sir. I’ve come to ask for my job back.”

The man behind the desk, straightened up and scoffed aloud. “You realize that your previous job,” he spat the word as if it were an insult, “was being my slave.”

A light blush settled on the cheeks of the tanned man and he nervously tried to straighten the frayed hem of his tunic. “I do realize that, however, I have not been able to establish my life to my liking. Finding work has been… wildly unsuccessful.”

“Were my efforts to help you after my employ not enough? Did I not front you enough money?” His voice had a hard edge to it. If the man was insinuating that his work had not been adequate... “Phoebus.” Valerius Flaccus sighed heavily, his thin chest sinking even farther into the chair. It seemed to want to swallow him. “I’m not sure this is what you really want.”

He shook his head slowly, as if ruminating on those words. “It’s not, but it’s my only choice.”

“Be back here by the Ides.” It gave him five days to move back into his villa.  
Phoebus nodded quickly. “Thank you, sir. ”

~~~~

Valerius Flaccus never liked his nomen nor cognomen. They struck fear and awe into clients and the people he worked with. The Valeria gens was one of the most ancient in Rome, able to trace its roots all the way back to the rape of the Sabine women. Few others were so highly celebrated and so highly regarded in the city. It didn’t do this particular member any good at all.

As soon as he was out of the villa, Sherlock shed the pretenses of his family name and the duties of a rich man with needy clients. His body guard followed closely behind him, but Sherlock gave all attempts to ignore the slave. He was large and hulking, as all proper body guards should be, and was given to him by his brother. By all accounts it wasn’t a very interesting story; something mundane about Sherlock not taking proper care of his safety and his elder brother being terribly worried. It was all for appearances, Sherlock knew. His safety was no one’s concern, least of all his own.

The market was crowded on a day like today. The sun was shining and the masses of Rome were out to celebrate the respite from the rain. Sherlock never came to the market unless it was absolutely necessary. The hustle and bustle of the crowd frankly made him a bit ill.

Unfortunately, he was in dire need of a new manservant. Phoebus had been his secretary of sorts before he had bought his freedom. Sherlock was sore to see him go, of course, since the man was well attuned to his needs. Ethically, however, he couldn’t deny the sack of money placed so reverently on his desk didn’t outweigh the slave’s worth. 

He had been surviving off of his remaining staff of slaves ever since Phoebus’s departure. It had been difficult. None of them were used to dealing so closely with their temperamental master and it had caused quite a few headaches on both sides. It was time to face the facts and realize that he couldn’t cope on his own. Someone had to forcibly dress him in his best toga when guests arrived or remind him it was necessary to consume food once in a while. Phoebus would be reassigned to another area of the household. He’d end up managing the rest of the slaves or some other task. Sherlock didn’t care what happened to the man now. He had done his duty by accepting the payment for his release and then by allowing him back into his household. There was no obligation to anything further.

It was easy to spot the slaves in the market. They were, for one, dressed in naught but a small sign hanging from their necks adorned with a price. Sherlock approached the neat rows of men and women, composing his face into a disinterested mask. He quickly scanned and dismissed the female slaves. They never possessed the education he required for this particular job. There were bodyguards of every price in the lines. They were the most popular in the market it seemed. He spied the slave owner in the process of negotiating.  
Sherlock perused the lines quickly, thankful that the owner was otherwise occupied. They were truly like vultures.

He stopped in front of a tall, lithe man whom he could immediately tell was Greek. The sign hanging round his neck told him that the slave was educated. There was no price on the wood, however, telling Sherlock that the owner clearly thought he was the most important of the lot.

“Which languages do you speak and write in?” His voice was commanding even in the loud market.

The slave’s eyes nervously flicked over to the slavedriver. “Greek and Latin, dominus,” he whispered, barely moving his mouth.

“Let me see your teeth.”

The slave obliged. It was common for shoppers to inspect the teeth of a slave to get a good indication of his health.

“Good, good,” Sherlock mused, taking in the slave’s seemingly healthy physique.

“Oh please,” came a derisive voice to the Greek’s right. “He was vomiting blood the whole journey here, but you’ll never hear him,” he jerked his thumb to indicate the slavedriver, “admit that much.”

Sherlock wheeled around, pristine toga whipping about. “I will not,” he towered down over the slave, “be spoken to that way.”

The slave stared straight ahead, eyes seeing seemingly past the man over him. He was short and stocky, but well built. Based on the sandy blond hair and pale skin, he was certainly from Britain. A spear wound on his right shoulder said war conquest. 

Sherlock’s deft fingers grazed the wound, which was still red and weeping. “You’re not exactly a perfect specimen yourself.”

The slave continued to stare ahead.

“What? Mute now? After you have already spoken outside of your station? You might as well speak freely now. Can you write Latin as well?”

“Yes.”

“Open your mouth.”

The slave almost rolled his eyes, but chose the wise decision. Sherlock’s attention was now fully upon the Brit and the Greek slave looked almost relieved.

“Any special skills?”

“I was a doctor in Britain of the Regnenses.”

By now the slave owner had spotted Sherlock, smelled the money, and was circling like a shark. “Valerius Flaccus,” he purred, putting a lightly tanned hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “What interests you today?”

Sherlock knew how to play the game. He turned from the British slave, seemingly not giving it another thought. “In the market for a personal.”

Immediately the slave owner gestured to the Greek slave. “This one is a fine specimen, really. He is well versed in Latin and Greek and can manage your books.”

He mused on the choice, making a show of looking over the slave’s lithe form. “Good health?”

He eyed the British slave as he said this and was rewarded with a smirk and an eyeroll.

“Of course! That is my guarantee, you have to know that.”

“I don’t have to know anything,” came the curt reply. 

“My apologies.” He stood awkwardly, confused by the unorthodox bargaining technique.

Sherlock made a large production of sighing and being disappointed in his choice. “I’ll take that one.” He raised one long, pale finger in the direction of the British slave. 

“I trust this will be enough.” He produced a small velvet bag from the inner folds of his toga and placed it into the well worked hand of the slave driver.

He weighed it carefully, taking a while to muse on its contents and hearing the telltale jingle. “Since you’re such a good customer...”

Sherlock cut him off by grabbing the slave’s arm and swiftly marching him away.

“Good doing business with you too, Valerius Flaccus!” The slave owner called after him half in gratitude and half in derision.

The British slave allowed himself to be frogmarched all the way back to Sherlock’s villa, flanked by the bodyguard and not speaking a word.

He refused to be overwhelmed by the villa. It was, without a doubt, the most impressive dwelling he’d ever been in. He couldn’t let the awe show on his face. His new master seemed to scan him for a reaction after the grand entrance into the main room in the center of which was a lavish garden fed by a hole in the roof. His face remained passive in the face of such beauty.

“You’re awfully quiet.” 

The slave gazed past his new master, eyes unfocused. “How may I serve you?”

His master threw off his white toga in a burst of laughter leaving it discarded on the floor. “Oh drop that malarkey they taught you on the slave ship coming here. Did they tell you I’d beat you if you didn’t?”

The slave almost let a smile slip at his master’s sudden outburst, but schooled it just in time.

“What’s your name, then?”

“John Watson.”

“Ah John Watson from Britain. You’re a doctor, of course, but also a soldier. You only said you were a doctor back in the market so that I wouldn’t think you were somehow dangerous. You limped on the way here and thought or hoped I didn’t notice. One of the old women on the slave ship told you it was an injury from the war, but you’d do best to forget that. It’s all in your head. The only injury you sustained in the fighting was that spear wound in your left shoulder. You were trying to save a fallen comrade in the heat of battle, but were injured yourself.”

John couldn’t stop himself in time. “That was… brilliant!” He breathed.

His master took an unconscious step backwards. “Come again?”

“Brilliant.”

He threw the slave an odd look of incomprehension. “That’s not how people usually react.”

“What do they say?”

“Efutue.”

John dissolved into laughter, doubling over and clutching his stomach in equal parts mirth and disbelief. His master observed the British slave with a light smile on his face.

After a few moments, John recovered enough to straighten his spine again, the laughter still showing on his face. “And what shall I call you?”

“It is proper, of course, to call me Dominus, but you’ll never get a response that way if I’m working. The name is Sherlock Valerius Flaccus. By all accounts my name should have been Lucius Valerius Flaccus as all my forebears have so been called. But... here we are.”

“Sherlock,” John tasted the name, rolling it about on his tongue. “We don’t have names like that in Britain.”

Sherlock scoffed, “Neither do we.”

They shared a quiet smile in silence.

“You’re dismissed, Rufus.” Sherlock waved a careless hand at the bodyguard who was still hovering over the pair. He resumed his position by the door.

“Come with me, John. We will discuss your duties.” Sherlock set off into the dark corridor to their left. “Oh, and bring that toga with you!”

John scooped up the forgotten garment and followed after the tall man.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own any of these characters except the OCs. I do my best to research any historical references, but I mostly rely upon my own knowledge from extensive Latin courses. Any errors are my fault and will be corrected if brought to my attention. Work will not be updated often as I am quite busy with that horrid thing called university. This is also not beta'd and any errors are my own and regrettable.

The tour, by all accounts, had been rather brief. Sherlock gestured at various doors around the villa with a careless hand. “Oh, that’s the triclinium.” Or “Those are our spare bedrooms. They’ll never be full. What use do I have for guests?” John had laughed at the utter seriousness on Sherlock’s face.

They finished in Sherlock’s office. “Right. Here’s where I conduct all of my business.”

“Business?”

Sherlock absentmindedly picked at one fraying edge on his pale blue tunic. “I suppose I ought to admonish you for speaking without being asked a question, but I’ve never really been adept at having slaves. Feel free to speak your mind, John Watson, although I hardly think I would need to give you that permission.” Sherlock arched one eyebrow. “You seem the type of man who always speaks his mind.”

John paused. “Thank you… I suppose. But your business then?”

“Ah, right. As of a man of considerable wealth, I must spend a ridiculous amount of time managing books and dealing with clients. Everyone in this town always wants something.” Sherlock pursed his lips. 

“Oh,” John cast his eyes to the tiled floor depicting what he presumed to be some mythological story. 

“You’re disappointed.” A light smile played on the master’s face.

“No...”

Sherlock laughed derisively. “It’s fine. I would be too.” 

In just a few long steps, the man was almost uncomfortably close to his new slave. Sherlock was taller than John and used his superior height to bear down on the man. “Seen a lot of injuries, then? Violent deaths?”

John could hardly get the space to breathe. “Yes.”

“Bit of trouble too, I bet.” Sherlock seemed to be taking pleasure in his discomfort.

“Of course, yes.” The flashes of war torn Britain flashed through his mind. “Enough for a lifetime… far too much.” He cast his eyes to the side, not wanting to look at the product of his final losing battle.

“Want to see more?” The look on Sherlock’s face could almost be described as a quiet, assured triumph. John wanted so sorely to protest. He was not about to enter into whatever this was with his new captor. He hardly knew the man or what his true business was. Murder? Torture? 

And yet the only words he could muster were: “Dear Dagda, yes.”

The quiet triumph dissolved into a genuine smile. The pair laughed at their absurdity, but before John had even begun to dispense all of his mirth, Sherlock had returned to cool passivity. 

“My true business is consulting detective.” Sherlock stopped, looking ever pleased.

“Which is?”

The pleased look dropped like a vase on the edge of an unstable table. “I help solve murders, John.”

“Ah, that explains the injuries and violent death thing then. Right. Okay.”

A deep crease appeared on Sherlock’s brow. “If you’re quite done trying to get on my good side, I actually do have work to do.”

“No, I’m not quite done. Do you do that brilliant thing where you’re able to guess everything about anyone? Is that how you solve mysteries?” A light smile played on John’s lips. He might be playing in dangerous territory.

A foot stomped on the floor. “I do not guess, John! It’s called the science of deduction. I’ve written several scrolls on the matter, which are available in my personal library and several libraries around Rome.”

A laugh threatened to bubble its way up to the surface, but John somehow kept it in check. “So how could you tell I was a soldier if you didn’t guess?”

Sherlock hesitated. Showing off always got him mocked, but he could never resist such an easy challenge. “You are a young man of clear vitality. You stood out in the lines of slaves at the market by your posture: erect without any hint of exhaustion since you were used to standing at attention in the army. You had clearly developed muscles of the upper arms and chest, perfect for throwing a spear. Even being a doctor you would have to have had some amount of weapons training. You are clearly British; it’s written all over your face. You are fair haired and fair skinned. Anyone who has been trained in an army with those physical characteristics should be from Britain. The markets are dominated by war conquests and African and Greek imports. You fall into the first category, of course, and naturally the major conflicts occurring now are British.”

“That’s amazing!” John breathed. 

Sherlock took a step back, suddenly painfully aware that he was still close to the slave. “Are you aware you do that aloud?”

“Sorry. I can stop.”

Sherlock waved his hand. “It’s fine.”

John looked away, a light flush settling on his cheeks. “Right.”

“You can read.” Sherlock pointed at the door. “Go use my library and read the scrolls on the science of deduction. Perhaps you’ll learn something and then be of actual use to me.”

“More use than just carrying around your discarded togas?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, “Oh I’m quite sure you can be of more use than that, John. Now leave me in peace.” He lowered himself into the chair seated at the desk and didn’t look up as John left the room. 

John clenched his left hand as he limped down the hallway, struggling to remember which room held the library. 

 

John did what Sherlock asked. He sat on one of the fine leather chairs in the corner of the room and unrolled a scrolled adorned with the words The Science of Deduction. It appeared to have been scribed by one of Sherlock’s slaves because he couldn’t imagine the man with such a scattered brain would have such a steady, perfect hand.

John was well practiced in reading scrolls written in Latin. Most of his medical training in Britain was learned through apprenticeship and helping more skilled doctors and healers. However, John was not a simple healer. He was educated, as rare as that was, and it seemed as though that education was going to come in handy. He devoured any and every Latin text he came across even if it wasn’t medical related. Every piece of money he saved went directly and swiftly to medical scrolls.

As he read on, he grew more and more suspicious of his new master. This almost seemed like witchcraft. In one section of the long and well-used scroll, Sherlock detailed how he supposedly could identify the exact contents of a lady’s perfume. John was, of course, a learned man who didn’t put much stock into such nonsense like witchcraft. And yet… there seemed hardly to be another explanation. John didn’t know what kind of perfume Roman women wore, but he didn’t think he could identify the exact contents of any he had ever smelled. Perhaps Sherlock had some kind of second sight. He knew all of those details about John just by looking at him. It was disconcerting to say the least. Brilliant, yet disconcerting.

The next section of the scroll was on the drug opium. John rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand. He had been at this for too long. He haphazardly rolled up the scroll. Opium could wait.

He replaced it on the shelf and took another look around the library. It wasn’t small by any means. Some huts back in his old village in Britain weren’t even this big. 

John stretched his legs, feeling the ever present creak of the muscles in his right leg. When he was distracted, the pain faded into the background. When he was trying to sleep or trying to read this damned nonsense, it kept him on his toes. 

He could really go for a drink. Romans were rather renowned for their wine consumption. Maybe he could go on a hunt through his new master’s stock. If he could find it, that is.

Glancing both ways to make sure the hall was clear, John crept in the vague direction of the kitchen. It was in the rather dark and dusty corner of the villa reserved for the slaves. Ducking in, John let out a great, disappointed sigh. 

It was completely organized, what little was left was neatly stacked. How did the master get anything cooked around here? He didn’t see anything that could pass for food, just a few large clay amphoras and the requisite cooking implements. So much for that wine. John wondered if he’d ever get fed a proper meal with this poorly stocked kitchen.

“This is the winter kitchen, John.”

John clutched at his chest and wheeled around to find his master lounging against the wall. “I didn’t mean-”

Sherlock waved his hand. “Right, you didn’t mean to go sneaking around. Save it; I’ve heard just about every excuse a slave can muster. You did it, let’s move on.

“Since it is summer, we use the kitchen out back. Reduces the instance of fires or so my brother goes on about. If you’re hungry one of the other slaves can show you. I assume you’ve seen them already.”

John shook his head quickly. “I wasn’t hungry. Just really needed a drink after reading The Science of Deduction.” He shot Sherlock a look that the man couldn’t quite identify. It was something akin to derision mixed with admiration.

“That is a very important collection, John!” The sudden outburst made the slave clench his hand in fear. “It is a privilege that I merely let you touch it.” His voice had turned to pure ice.

“I’m sorry, dominus. I appreciate the privilege.” John inclined his head.

“You’re not, but I’ll accept it nonetheless. While we are on the subject, there will be no drinking unless it is at my behest. If you need it to tolerate my presence or my work, I will find another place in the house for you. Perhaps you would be better suited to cleaning.” One cocked eyebrow almost sent John over the edge. This was madness. Sherlock was madness.

“No, sir. I can control myself.”

“You better. Mycroft says I ought to have better control over my slaves anyhow. Not that I tend to listen to him, mind you don’t get the wrong idea, but I’m starting to think it’s not such a bad idea.” Sherlock fiddled with one edge of the fine tunic that hung loosely over his gaunt frame. Despite his assertion that there was a summer kitchen, John figured his earlier assessment hadn’t been totally wrong. The master didn’t seem to indulge in food too often.

“Mycroft?”

Sherlock huffed. “Do keep up. Mycroft is my brother and the only reason you’re here.”

“Me?” John was under the distinct assumption that Sherlock had bought or rescued him from that hot market.

“Yes, you! He said that I was a rotten master for making the other slaves put up with me after Phoebus left.”

The look on Sherlock’s face said that that was the end of the discussion. It was a few long moments before Sherlock deigned to speak again.

“He’s back now, but in charge of the other slaves. He bought his own freedom.” Sherlock said the word like it left a bitter taste in his mouth. “Pity it didn’t work out for him.” Sincerity was, on the whole, lost on Sherlock.

“Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end.”

“Oh?” John’s eyebrows shot skyward. Were they volunteering information on each other now?

“I thought you ought to know the worst about me. I am going to get some actual work done. Settle in.”

As he watched the master’s retreating back down the hallway, John had the unmistakable feeling that not speaking for days was definitely not the worst thing about Sherlock. Now he really was hungry, not having eaten since that horrid bread was tossed to them as they tossed about on the slave boat. Where was that purported summer kitchen again?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave comments if you'd like! Anything at all will prompt me to keep going.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! So far I haven't been completely hopeless with updating. Do keep in mind that the faster I update, the fewer times I reread what I wrote, which means more mistakes. Again, this is unbeta'd so any mistakes are mine and regrettable.

Sherlock looked down at John’s limp in distaste, not trying to conceal the curl of his lips. Despite its psychosomatic nature, he wondered if he should get the slave a cane. It was probably causing him some discomfort and his speed was causing Sherlock discomfort.

“Do keep up, John.” He glanced over his shoulder to see the slave struggling to keep pace. 

John focused on the ground in front of him, putting one foot in front of the other. They had been walking for quite some time. Although it was only morning, the heat was already verging on unbearable. He was beginning to feel tired. 

Ahead of him, Sherlock’s toga whipped around his ankles. This garment was finer than anything John had seen yet. Of course Sherlock didn’t wear togas except out of the house and that was a rare occasion in itself.

Every flap of the linen gave John a peek at Sherlock’s short, red boots, which were starkly different from the sandals he had worn out just a few days before. 

“Dominus...” John started hesitantly. He was sure they had been walking for the good part of the morning.

“If you’re going to ask when we are going to arrive at our destination, it won’t be too much longer.”

“No-”

“No?” Still walking forward, Sherlock turned one appraising, ocean blue eye on the slave. 

“I was wondering about your shoes.” Sherlock faced forward to avoid seeing John’s face turn a light shade of pink. Perhaps that was the only question the slave could muster to cover his folly. 

“I suppose I ought to educate you on this world. They are _calcei patricii_ , which are worn by men of my station. Not required, of course, but since we are on our way to a senator’s house, it is necessary for me to demonstrate said station in any way possible. It prompts them to trust you. Different shoes for different classes and positions. Not terribly interesting. Mycroft bought me these and I at least make an effort to wear them.” The black curls that fell haphazardly around Sherlock’s head were quickly becoming plastered down from the heat. He sighed delicately, giving up on looking presentable. With any luck, the senator would look just as heat ravaged. “Mycroft can be absolutely insufferable, but don’t suggest he doesn’t know how to work people.”

John ruminated on this information. His own shoes were made of some kind of plant fibers or leaves and didn’t look like they’d stand up to much use. He had found them on his bed the first night he’d gone to sleep with a note that read “only for outdoor use”. There wasn’t much time to waste trying to identify the material, not that it really mattered to John. They were shoes. He was to wear them outside. End of story.

Sherlock abruptly turned down a street and John tried to stifle a gasp. Much of Rome that he had encountered so far had been packed and crowded. The sidewalks overflowed with citizens and slaves and the available land had as many houses squeezed in as possible and built right to the street. Even the street that housed Sherlock’s villa was opulent, but still rather crowded. This… oh this was different! This was the closest John had come to seeing something that reminded him of Britain. It wasn’t the huge, stately houses that did it, but the sheer overwhelming greenness! Never had John seen so much grass in Rome. 

“ _Herbida,_ ” (Grassy) John breathed.

Sherlock opened a metal gate and paused with his hand on the latch. “Yes, John. You’re seeing grass. I imagine you have that in Britain.”

John pursed his lips. “You don’t need to be rude. We were always told that Rome was a city entirely paved by stone, crowded to overflow.”

“Rude...” A dangerous glint flashed in Sherlock’s eyes. They were nearing the front door to the most imposing house on the street. Dark shutters closed almost every window in the house despite the heat. It looked like a fortress. “Most of Rome is indeed paved, but there are still a few of us that can afford to be… how did you so eloquently put it? _Herbida._ ”

Sherlock paused on the doorstep, fist poised to knock. “Now, John. I ought to inform you of your expected behavior. While in the presence of the Senator-”

The door swung open beneath his fist, revealing a hulking slave with dark skin and piercing eyes. “This is the home of Senator Clodius. Speak your intent.”

Sherlock tilted his head. Well spoken for a door slave. Ah, recently demoted. Explained the harsh look in his eyes. “The Senator called for me. Valerius Flaccus.”

The slave nodded and opened the door wider to admit Sherlock and his slave. John followed with an air of trepidation. Of course Sherlock had the entire morning’s walk to explain what was expected of him. No, the infuriating man had waited until the absolute last possible minute and they had been interrupted. He would just stand behind Sherlock and be silent. That couldn’t get him into trouble.

The inside of the villa, if it could even be called that as it was more like a palace, was much more opulent that the outside. It was darkened by the closed shutters and was somehow significantly cooler. A light breeze swept through, ruffling Sherlock’s toga. Damn that Senator, he thought. He was probably lounging in the bowels of the house, looking perfectly put together while Sherlock looked like he had just run the whole way from Ostia to Rome. 

“Follow me,” the slave intoned. 

They wound their way through the large house, half of which seemed to be covered by gauzy curtains. Sherlock and John both had to privately admit that the effect was spectacular. Oil lamps provided small casts of light that filtered through the curtains that swayed ethereally in the breeze.

Light laughter signalled that they had reached their destination. It was the _peristylium_. Large columns held up the roof, which opened to the sky in the center of the room. It was the hallmark of a true Roman villa. A fountain bubbled happily in the corner and the place was practically littered with expensive statues. The excess of it all was also most decidedly Roman. Nevertheless it matched the rest of the interior of the house in its charm.

Coming around the corner, Sherlock’s suspicions were confirmed. The senator was relaxing on a large chair surrounded by slaves with huge palm fans. A woman, presumably his wife, sat opposite sipping on an unidentifiable liquid, probably wine. She looked up with a big smile. “Honey! The uh… the” She snapped her fingers trying to remember. The lapse didn’t deter her smile. 

“Detective?” Ventured the Senator with eyebrows raised at his wife’s behavior.

She nodded ecstatically. 

The Senator laughed lightly behind one hand heavily adorned with rings. “Slave, perhaps my wife needs to have a little lie down. Someone put a bit too much wine in her cup.”

At that last remark, the woman adopted a very alluring and very pouty look.

“You can’t convince me with that look. Slave.” The Senator waved his hand and one of his many attendants led the woman away with some amount of difficulty.

John stole a glance at Sherlock who looked vaguely uncomfortable. He tried to hang slightly back, the picture of deference. It was the first time he had to act like a slave in front of others and he imagined that how Sherlock allowed him to act was not acceptable anywhere else.

“Please, sit.” The Senator gestured toward the seat just vacated by his inebriated wife. Sherlock eyed it in distaste, but sat nonetheless. 

John had to physically restrain himself from moving towards it. Inwardly he cursed himself. Just a few months ago, that would have been him. He would have been the one invited to sit in a rich man’s house. As a healer he was widely respected in his village.

It was difficult, no- it was completely mind blowing to go from a healer, a soldier, lover, brother, friend, free person to this. Now he relied on one man to tell him when he could sleep, when he could eat, and what he could do. What he could do generally boiled down to what would serve his master best. It was true that when he was in the army, which honestly hadn’t been that long, he had similar restrictions. There was always that sense of the light at the end of the tunnel, though. One day he’d be out of the army, and he’d be free to be a full time physician and eventually husband. Free.

Now he had this. He had Sherlock or rather Sherlock had him. John supposed that wasn’t all bad. He’d heard a few horror stories back in Britain of the terrible masters that Romans could be. That was a better motivator than death for the soldiers. Win this battle or the Romans would have you digging ditches or feed you to the lions! That life scared them shitless.

Sherlock wasn’t that terrible. John had a bed, three square meals a day, and at least some sense of sanity when the master kept his mouth shut. Aesthetically, well…

“John!”

John snapped out of his reverie and was greeted by a seated Sherlock who had gone deep red in the face. He was still standing near the entrance to the room, lost in his thoughts. The Senator was staring at him in scandalized amusement while Sherlock was practically glowering.

“Yes, sir?” He snapped to attention.

“It would be nice if you would be cognizant of what was happening around you. Fetch me a drink,” Sherlock gestured towards the low table. “Then stand behind me properly.”

Lowering his head to cover the incoming blush, John scurried over. There was a stack of unused wine cups and an array of what he assumed were the wife’s used ones. He poured a decent amount from the decanter and quickly placed it into Sherlock’s waiting hand. Taking his place behind his master’s chair, he could finally breathe a sigh of relief. Whatever he had just done was not right, but what was done is done.

“You call your slaves by their names?” The Senator barely suppressed a mocking laugh.

Sherlock shifted his toga over his legs. The breeze made the peristylium much more bearable than the weather outside. “Clearly he wasn’t going to answer to Slave. I’ve only had him for about a week.”

“You have to train them quick or they’ll get the wrong idea about you being soft or something.” Clodius tipped his wine cup conspiratorially. “Personally, I favor the whip, but to each his own.”

“Quite.”

Behind him, John blanched. He had been speared through the shoulder in battle, but he didn’t look too kindly upon whipping. He had messed up today and Sherlock would surely make him suffer for it.

“About why I am here...” 

“Oh, yes!” The Senator clapped his hands. “You came highly recommended by Mycroft. I am in a bit of trouble.”

Sherlock inclined his head, soured by the mention of his brother’s name. “I’m sure Mycroft had nothing but praise. I am indeed usually called upon when there is trouble.”

“It’s terrible! I lost my signet ring! I haven’t been able to conduct any official business. It’s beginning to get a bit desperate, as I’m sure you can imagine. Not only do I seal my documents and letters with it, it’s my signature.” The Senator wrung his hands around and John couldn’t imagine where he’d put another ring or even how he’d notice one missing.

Sherlock leaned back in the chair. John imagined he was reading the Senator, trying to see all of his secrets like he did when they first met. “Clodius, did you go to the baths shortly before you lost the ring?”

He mused on this thought. “I did! Could it be there? I usually don’t remove my rings, but sometimes they get a little cumbersome. I do remember removing a few the last time I visited the baths.”

“You could have left it there,” Sherlock affirmed, “but you didn’t.”

“Then where?” Clodius demanded. He didn’t seem to appreciate Sherlock dancing around the subject.

“Her.” Sherlock raised one pale white hand toward the slave who had led away Clodius’s wife. She had returned to her master’s side sometime during the conversation when John hadn’t been paying attention.

“The slave?” The Senator scoffed. 

She slunk back towards the shadows. “You don’t even know my name,” came the soft, accented voice.

Sherlock nodded. “Her shoes. That’s what clued me in. All of your other slaves are wearing shoes of similar quality to John- I mean, my slave’s. Her shoes are much nicer. Not so nice as to appear like she stole them, but of much higher quality. She pawned the ring. Probably didn’t get near its true value.” He shrugged. It was obvious, really. 

The atmosphere in the room went from warm and jovial to ice cold. John took an involuntary step closer to Sherlock. 

“How dare-” The Senator rose from his chair, shaking a solitary finger towards the slave. She had her eyes screwed shut, body half turned like she had the brief idea to run. “Tell me that’s not true!”

She nodded jerkily. Tears leaked down her face. “Please...”

The Senator laughed cruelly and Sherlock abruptly gathered his toga and crossed the room with inhuman speed. “Come, John. I believe it is time for us to leave.”

As the pair rushed through the curtained hallways, dull smacks and a woman’s screams punctuated the air. Sherlock winced each time and John wondered if that was his fate to come. 

Once onto the street again in the oppressive heat, Sherlock rounded on John. “Your behavior was humiliating. Overshadowed by the thief, but disgraceful nonetheless.” He set off at a fierce pace towards the busy streets. “I have half a mind to hire a litter and leave you here to find your own way home. It’s too damn hot to walk that whole way.” He was right. The walk had been bad enough when the morning weather was kinder.

John opened his mouth to protest and struggled to keep up. Could he even find his way back to the villa?

“Actually,” Sherlock smiled, those bow lips curling upwards. “I believe I will. For a job well done I deserve the litter and you can consider this your punishment.” He quickly threw himself into the throng of people in the square. For a split second, John was able to keep sight of the dark hair, but soon the crowd swallowed him. Not quite ready to accept his position, John stood rooted to the spot. 

A litter rose above the heads of the crowd, swaying with the effort. John began to push through the togas and tunics, trying to follow the litter. For the second time today, he forgot he was a slave. Where the people had parted for Sherlock, they closed against him. 

John cursed the man for leaving him here alone. Unwhipped, but entirely alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who commented and gave kudos! <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical note: While living in Britain, John would have most likely spoken Common Brittonic. However, since no documents written in this language exist, I couldn't find an online dictionary (ha. ha.) In order to supply a few words in John's "native" language, I substituted Old Welsh, which is a direct descendant of Common Brittonic, but wasn't used until 800 CE. Also, the Otherworld is the Celtic version of the afterlife. Apparently they didn't have a concept for Hell, which sorta bums me out.
> 
> Enough history, onto the story!!

It took John several hours to find his way back to the villa. Night had begun to fall and the sky had turned a dusky violet color marred by the sheer multitude of lit torches and oil lamps.

He tried to ask for directions. It was laughable, really. John deliberately targeted men wearing tunics, the hallmarks of the working class and slaves. 

It were as though he were the bringer of death itself the way they shrunk away. The first man he approached cast his eyes downward in silence. John repeated his question twice before he realized he was purposefully not responding.

The next man simply turned around and began walking in the complete opposite direction. Fine, slaves were out of the question. They probably couldn’t talk to John lest their masters punish them for misbehaving. He had a lot to learn about other slaves.

Three men, all wearing togas, stood along a street corner illuminated by a single oil lamp. They were as good targets as any since as night fell, the incidence of togas decreased greatly. The rich fled the cover of darkness and the thieves it held.

“Excuse me, sirs,” John folded his hands behind his back and executed a half bow.

The three men exchanged identical, incredulous looks and burst into laughter. John peered up, unsure if he had said the wrong thing.

“This slave,” the man on his right said, “thinks he can speak to us! We don’t own you!”

“Now friends,” the one in the middle had a kinder face. “Shall we summon the slave catcher or bring him to his master for a handsome reward?”

That’s precisely what John wanted, but he was smart enough not to trust these men. He clenched his fists in preparation of a fight, but it appeared as though they actually wanted to debate the merits of their two options. 

“Well,” started the first man, “we ought to consider which route would offer the largest return. The slave catchers are good at talking their way out of a payment.”

The third man spoke up, eyes catching sight of John’s fists. “This one looks like a fighter, men! Perhaps a report of his behavior will better serve his master.”

“ _Ha'ou!_ ” (Shit) That’s it. John wasn’t about to sit around and watch them debate his future. Taking a deep breath, which inevitably drew the attention of his supposed saviors, John bolted down a side street.

“Slave! He’s getting away!” Shouts and the sound of shoes slapping the street echoed off the high walls. Heart pounding, John ran as fast as he possibly could. The exhaustion from the day’s walk and that damn heat wasn’t a good precursor to such a run. His breath was already coming fast and labored.

Turning around one very well lit corner, John gasped and almost doubled over in relief. Halfway down the street was Sherlock’s villa, torches blazing next to the door. The voices were gaining on him. Dear Dagda he had never been so happy to see that silver door before. Right now that was his freedom, the light at the end of the tunnel.

John slammed his body into the door, half expecting it to open beneath him, but it held fast. He knocked rapidly, practically sobbing in a mixture of fear and relief. “Please, please open the door. It’s John. Please. Please. I’m being pursued.”

The door cautiously swung open and the door slave, whose name John could never remember, poked out his head. John wasted no time in finding out if the slave remembered him either. He pushed through, practically knocking the slave into the wall. 

“Close the damn door!” He panted. “Lock it too.”

The slave did so, presumably remembering John and not throwing him back onto the street at the mercy of the men.

“Ah, John. You’ve returned.”

Really? John didn’t even need to look up from his position slumped on the wall, bent over trying to regain his breath, to know who had just snuck up behind him. He couldn’t catch a break.

“Quite a commotion I hear. Something happen?” Sherlock’s voice was deep and smooth almost like a stream gently flowing over rocks. Despite the trouble it brought, John was incredibly grateful to hear it once more. Not being here listening to this voice meant he would be still on the street, captured and probably sold once more.

John groaned in pain and ran a hand through his hair. He straightened up in order to look Sherlock in the eye. Might as well walk all the way to the Otherworld, bags in hand. “I was being pursued.” 

“So I heard. Might I ask how you found yourself in that position?” Sherlock’s ice blue eyes were narrowed dangerously in the gloom. His hair was unusually tousled and he was only wearing a tunic that looked curiously rumpled. 

“I couldn’t find my way home, dominus.” John figured any extra respect he could pay would be beneficial. Had Sherlock been sleeping?

Sherlock’s mouth twitched in annoyance. John was drawn to them by the slight movement. Perhaps he could learn to read Sherlock like the man seemed to do to everyone he came across. “And that led to you being pursued?” Despite the harsh look on his face, John thought he detected laughter in his voice.

“I uh- tried to ask for directions. Slaves wouldn’t answer me so I resorted to these three men in togas. They tried to turn me into a slave catcher or try to extort a reward from you.” John looked away. He didn’t want to see Sherlock’s disappointed face. “I wouldn’t have let them extort you. I swear.”

“Really?” Loud laughter filled the entrance to the villa. John looked up in disbelief. Sherlock was almost doubled over, gasping for breath.

“Yes?” John sincerely hoped it was a ploy and that Sherlock would snap back to normality. To John, he was brooding and mysterious, not raising his voice against the slaves or very often in jubilation. He didn’t know what to expect in any moment. He had been with Sherlock for such a short period of time relative to his whole life, but this new situation was rife with confusion. 

Slowly but surely, Sherlock’s amusement subsided. He smoothed his wrinkled tunic and now his eyes held more kindness than ice. “John Watson, you are an enigma.”

Before John could reply, Sherlock already turned and was making his way down the hall towards his bedroom. 

“Oh, and John?”

Still in the same spot, shocked into immobility, John looked up.

“I get precious little sleep. Don’t ever interrupt it with your little adventures again.”

And John was the enigma. Right.

~~~~

“Everyone should assume normal roles for tonight’s _convivium_. It’s not often the master has a dinner party so if this night could run smoothly, I would be incredibly happy and so would he.”

John learned that the slave addressing the lot of them was Phoebus. Earlier that day Sherlock had been calling his name up and down the halls for every little thing. He was the one that had bought his own freedom then had returned when his new life hadn’t worked out. Apparently, John had discovered that a slave could be free if he was able to earn enough money to offset his worth. Furthermore, once you were a trusted slave, you could begin to earn paltry amounts of money for certain work. It was all a bit whirlwind for John. His light at the end of the tunnel was beginning to emerge.

John looked around at all of the slaves in the small kitchen, nodding and then moving around to get ready. Phoebus was surveying the throng and noticed that John hadn’t followed orders.

Phoebus approached. The Greek slave had a kind and very serious face. “Are you new?”

Trust Sherlock not to inform the head slave that John was there. “Yes. I don’t have a job for this yet. What should I do?”

Phoebus tilted his head, scrutinizing John. “Female slaves are usually the servers. I don’t imagine you can play any instruments or sing any songs.”

“No.” 

“I guessed as much. You seem more of the muscle type than the arts.” Phoebus smiled.

John wasn’t sure if he should feel affronted by that assumption. He just folded his hands behind his back and awaited orders.

“Well,” the slave mused. “We’ll just have you clean up the dining room after they’re done eating. I’m sure you know what these dinners are like.” Phoebus raised his eyebrows and shot John a look that said “you know what I’m talking about.”

John nodded. “Right. I’ll be sure to do that.” 

He spent the rest of the day in the room he shared with four other male slaves. They all had a basic bed and a table for any possessions. John’s was bare.

He had fallen asleep, bored without a task, only to be shaken awake by Phoebus. 

“The master is done with his dinner,” his hissed into the darkness. “Now you must clean the _triclinium._ ” 

John groaned, rolling out of his bed, feet landing on the cold ground. “Can’t this wait until morning?”

“Get to work.”

Thankfully the hallway was lit and John could begin to wake up. He heard laughter coming from inside of the dining room. He loitered outside. Slaves didn’t normally laugh. The diners must not have left yet. He shrunk back against the wall, trying to remain unseen as the voices grew closer.

An unknown man stumbled out first, barely glancing at John. Grasping at the wall, he made his way to the entrance. He heard the door open and slam shut.

Sherlock came out next. His hair was wild and his toga no longer fell in an artful way. It was rumpled and the strategic folds and wraps were no longer there. He had a bright smile, but his lips were reddened and swollen. Had he been kissing someone?

“John, John, John!” Sherlock practically fell against John, his long fingers threading in his tunic. “Did Mycroft go that way?”

John tried to hold Sherlock up, “I don’t know.”

“He’s my _brother._ ” Sherlock moaned and John smelled the wine on his breath.

The door to the dining room opened once more revealing two more men. One looked like Sherlock with dark hair and an equally unsettling countenance. “Brother mine, I am right here. Oh, is this your new slave?”

Sherlock roughly threw his hand on John’s head. “Yes, this is John. My John Watson. Soldier -hiccup- from Britain. So strong.”

John blushed deeply under Sherlock’s praise and Mycroft’s intense gaze. 

Mycroft laughed and grabbed the hand of his companion. “Lestrade, we should leave Sherlock alone. Clearly there wasn’t enough water in his wine.”

Lestrade, who wasn’t much older than John but had silver hair, gave John a sympathetic smile and allowed himself to be led by Mycroft down the hall. Sherlock watched them go, lips set in a definite pout. He slumped against the wall, releasing John for the time being.

“You should have -hiccup- served us. It was a wonderful night.” He touched his fingers to his lips. “Ow.”

Sherlock sighed happily. “Did you see Faustus. He’s so...” A giggle bubbled past those swollen lips. 

John stood in silence, waiting for Sherlock to finish his sentence.

“Take me to bed, John.” He giggled again. “I shouldn’t have said it like that.” 

John supported Sherlock as they walked towards his bedroom. The tile floor was cold on John’s feet, almost serving as a reminder that this wasn’t his world. He wasn’t privy to the dinner party, but he was there to clean up the mess.

Sherlock leaned against the bedroom door and almost toppled in.

John followed him, wanting to make sure that Sherlock made it to bed safely.

“Don’t look -hiccup-.” Another giggle.

John barely had time to shut his eyes before he heard fabric hit the floor. Creaking sounds told him that Sherlock had climbed into his bed. Cautiously, he opened his eyes again. “Are you done?”

“Are you done?” Sherlock mocked him, turning on his side so his back faced John and the door. “You should sleep too, John. You seem to need a lot of it.”

“I have to clean up the dining room,” he whispered.

Sherlock flopped on his back. “Phoebus?” John nodded. “Oh, do it in the morning. I’m in a charitable mood.” 

“Thank you, Sherlock.” John made his way back to his room, eager to return to sleep. He wasn’t sure what he expected out of a Roman dinner party and one that Sherlock hosted at that. It seemed like it had involved a lot of drinking to put his master in such a state with kiss swollen lips.

John froze, one leg already in his bed, hands grasping at the sheets. The only attendants had been men. Sherlock had been kissing someone. 

There was only one way that scenario played out and he had a sneaking suspicion that the so called Faustus was to blame. 

John shook his head into the dark room, “Unbelievable.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm incredibly grateful to everyone who has read this and those who have stuck with it. Makes me tear up, y'all.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY READ THESE WORDS PLEASE!!! That got your attention, right? Just a slight warning, there's a tad bit of salty language in this. The rating is teen and lord knows teens use that sort of language so I'm comfortable with the rating. I thought I'd just pass it along.   
> Small history lesson: Cogidubnus was the real king of the Regnenses and a pretty cool guy. He's credited with a lot of public works projects in his area, which we know from inscriptions. Also, if you've learned anything through this fan fic, it's how to say shit in two different dead languages. Wow, learning!  
> Also thank you to my new friend (and the power of environmental engineering) who has really great ideas and is spectacularly good at coming up with synonyms for shit when looking up words in an Old Welsh dictionary.  
> Anyways, this went on for way too long! Let's go!

“ _Merda._ ” (Shit.) It was the first word Sherlock had spoken all morning. His head was resting in his hands, shielding his eyes from any light. He had been sitting at his desk, unmoving, while John stood nearby still waiting for some sort of task or orders. 

“ _Defututus,_ ” (Tired, as if from sexual intercourse) Sherlock moaned and rolled his head around in his hands. 

John blushed deeply. Maybe it wasn’t just kissing that had taken place at that dinner party. 

Sherlock groaned again and without even looking up, he said, “Get that look off your face, John. You put me to bed, did you not?” He gingerly raised his head and fixed him with the sternest look he could muster in his condition.

“Yes…” John said cautiously.

“ _Et futuebamus?_ ” (And did we fuck?) Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“No, sir. I just thought, maybe Faustus...” He trailed off, silenced by the most deadly look he had seen on a man who couldn’t even tolerate the light of a single oil lamp. 

“Do not mention his name. I don’t know why I even told you. It must have been all that wine. Mycroft set that up; I’m positive of it. It’s infuriating.” He slapped his hand on the wooden desk then winced at the sound. “He’s always convinced I’m lacking in something. Proper slaves, someone to share my bed.” Sherlock raised a finger towards John’s face. “Which we did not do last night, so you can stop looking so scandalized. I don’t know how it is in Britain, but a relationship between two men is quite common.”

“No, I...” John trailed off. He wasn’t sure how to say that he didn’t mind without it coming across the wrong way. “It doesn’t matter, if you like men or women that is.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and muttered, “Curious. Anyway it doesn’t matter. This,” He gestured to his body, “is just transport for this,” He pointed to his head. 

“Transport?” John repeated.

“Yes, transport. The word means like my body is simply the road and means for my mind to travel.”

John scraped his foot on the floor impatiently. “I know what the word means. I don’t understand why you think it’s just transport. There’s great beauty in love, Sherlock. It’s having someone to come home to after the war. It’s not having to keep every thought locked away inside.”

Sherlock waved his hand. “I do that already, John, if you haven’t noticed. I spent an entire evening, no wasted an entire evening, on drink and revelry when I could have been working. Now I have wasted my entire morning, turned away all of my clients because my head is pounding too much to stand them. There is no benefit in wasting my mind on a lover.” His mouth was set in a hard line.

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” John turned on his heel and left Sherlock in the study without orders or permission to do so.

Sherlock stared at the closed door, as aghast as his tired mind could be. He was pretty lenient on his slaves, but this was really testing his patience. 

Thankfully the sensation didn’t last long. Soon the door swung open and John returned, clay cup in hand. “Drink.” He thrust it at Sherlock.

He took it cautiously and sniffed its contents. He couldn’t smell anything, but who knows what havoc the wine wreaked on his senses. “Is this some sort of British cure that I should be afraid of? Or more wine? Some men like to cure its aftereffects with more of it.”

John stood in front of him, arms crossed. “No. Just drink.”

Sherlock obeyed. “Ah, it is only water.”

John returned to his normal spot next to Sherlock’s desk. “You forget that I was a healer in Britain.”

“I did not forget. It is just the infernal hammering of the anvil in my mind that blocks out any useful thoughts.” Sherlock took another sip. It couldn’t hurt anymore at this point.

“Not only was I a healer, but I was also a man who enjoyed drinking with his friends.” John struggled not to let emotion into his voice.

Sherlock tilted the cup around, pretending to study it and not notice John almost crumple into tears. “You miss Britain,” he said as frankly as one might comment on the weather.

John clenched his fist. “Of course I do! I was ripped from my home, my friends, my freedom.”

“That’s what happens when one wages war on Rome.” Sherlock selected his words carefully, knowing that they would get a rise out of John.

“When one wages war on Rome?” John practically shrieked. Sherlock immediately shushed him and he continued in a harsh whisper. “They invaded us!”

He made a great show of unrolling a scroll just to check its contents then neatly roll it back. “Semantics. Cogidubnus (John’s king) seems to be rather enjoying our presence. Mycroft was discussing it with us last night. I seem to remember a bit about him becoming fast friends with Emperor Claudius. He’ll be a proper Roman by the end of the year, Mycroft says.”

John raised his eyebrows, deciding not to comment on his former king. He realized that Sherlock was just trying to annoy him, probably to take his own mind off of his poor condition. “And do you always believe what Mycroft says?” He too knew how to get a rise out of Sherlock.

His master huffed and slumped down farther into his large chair. “No.” He sounded like a petulant child. “He does know quite a bit more about politics than I, but that was not the purpose of that night. His friend,” Sherlock laughed like he knew a secret, “Lestrade, is a _aedile._ ”

John shot him a confused look. “A what?”

“Right, an _aedile._ Sometimes I do forget you’re not from around here even with that horrid accent. 

“Quite a boring position in my opinion and very prone to corruption. I gather Lestrade is an upright man, so that might bring a bit of confidence to the job. They’re in charge of maintaining public buildings, regulating public festivals, and ensuring public order. Basically, the most interesting part, the part that I’m supposed to be interested in, is that citizens will go to aediles with information on crimes. Apparently,” Sherlock leaned closer to John, “there’s been a string of serial suicides!”

John laughed.

“Serial suicides, John. Don’t let Lestrade catch you laughing at that; he takes this job very seriously. All these people apparently had good lives and were found in abandoned buildings far from where they lived. The aediles and their staff are stumped, of course. Lestrade might be upright, but that doesn’t mean he’s good at his job.”

“And what does that have to do with us-” John stopped, entirely embarrassed by the mistake. “I mean, you.”

Sherlock cradled the cup. “I do believe this drink and this conversation has made me feel better. You were actually correct the first time. Mycroft came to try to persuade me to take on the case and help Lestrade. He apparently wants to become a _praetor_ next and solving this case would greatly help in the election. You would be my assistant on the case, naturally.”

John’s outlook brightened considerably. He would prefer to do anything, but stand around or sleep all day with nothing to do. He needed some sort of stimulation. “When do we start?”

“We don’t. I’m not some puppet that Mycroft can use to get any man elected to an office he doesn’t deserve.” Sherlock crossed his arms over his thin chest and John almost wanted to laugh again. He was acting like a child now and John had to figure out a way to get them to work on that case. He was positively dying to get out of the villa. Not even the small amount of sunlight in the unused peristyllium was enough to sustain him. 

“Surely Mycroft has done something for you that warrants you giving your help.” John knew there was no way Sherlock would react favorably to that inquiry, but he had a point to make.

If Sherlock hadn’t been feeling so poorly and if he wasn’t grateful for the water, he would have thrown the cup at John’s head. Regardless, he still contemplated it. “Watch yourself.”

John grinned. “You said he was sort of responsible for you getting me, right? We should pay him back for that alone.”

John ducked.

With a great crash and a quickly spreading puddle of water on the floor, a cup had been thrown against the wall at a spot exactly where John’s head had been moments before. 

“Dear...” John just stared at Sherlock, whose head had returned to his hands and slumped over the desk.

Phoebus stuck his head around the door, drawn to the office presumably by the sound of the breaking cup. “Is everything alright in here, dominus? Do you need assistance?”

The two slaves watched with bated breath as Sherlock sat at his desk, unmoving. After an uncomfortable couple of moments, John dared to speak. “I think we’re fine in here. Just a little slip of the wrist.” He offered Phoebus a weak smile. The other slave barely looked at him.

“Dominus?” He repeated.

No response.

Phoebus cleared his throat. “There is someone here to see you, dominus.”

“Send him away,” Sherlock croaked. 

Phoebus frowned like he had been unfortunately expecting those words. “He says he has to talk to you. His name is Lestrade.”

Sherlock lifted his head just enough so that one eye could peer at the slave. “Gods… Let him in.” As Phoebus left, the head dropped again and he groaned, “Looks like you may yet get your wish, John.”

Even though there weren’t too many heavy objects left on Sherlock’s desk, John didn’t dare respond. Secretly, he was thrilled. 

Lestrade was clearly not. He was grim faced, but didn't seem to be experiencing the same effects from the previous night as Sherlock. "Valerius Flaccus..."

Sherlock shifted around in his chair and made a visible effort to sit up to look Lestrade in the eye. He was trying to use every tool at his disposal to seem intimidating. His sleep rumpled tunic and hair somewhat ruined the effect. "I think after last night we have moved past such formalities." John could tell that Sherlock was putting on an elevated speech. He wanted to tell Lestrade to leave, that today wasn't the day to be asking any favors of Sherlock. "Please, just Sherlock will do. Now I do believe you have some new information for me. A development?"

Lestrade tried his best not to seem intimidated. It was beyond difficult. Sherlock had a reputation beyond the one his family name provided. He was talked about like he was a sorcerer, peering into the minds of men. Lestrade steeled himself. "You know how last night I said they didn’t leave notes?”

Sherlock nodded with a sly look in his eyes. John figured Sherlock already worked out why Lestrade had come.

“This one did. Will you come?” Lestrade look hopeful, probably much too hopeful for the current situation.

“I need an assistant.” Sherlock shrugged. “You said last night you couldn’t provide someone competent.” John struggled to contain a disappointed look. Had his little jibe cost him this?

While Lestrade looked towards the ceiling in despair, Sherlock turned and winked at John. He was back on the case! Sherlock didn’t seem to hold a grudge. Add that to his running list of characteristics.

John didn’t want Lestrade to leave and he had no doubt that even if a note intrigued Sherlock that he’d still let the other man go. “I’ll do it.”

Lestrade looked over so fast John was sure he heard his neck pop against the strain. “Your slave?”

“Army doctor,” Sherlock corrected, “and my slave.”

Lestrade shook his head in disbelief. “Will you come?” He repeated at Sherlock.

“Not with you. I’ll be right along.”

Lestrade didn’t even try to contain his smile. “The Suburra. I’ll leave the address with your door slave.” As soon as he left the room, Sherlock stood up from his desk. John wasn’t even sure he was still capable.

He lept into the air, tunic riding up dangerously and clenched his fists with a manic look on his face. “Four serial suicides and now a note! John, Saturnalia came early this year!” He caught John’s confusion. “Winter solstice.”

John just watched in quiet amusement as his master bounded around the room, straightening things just to keep his hands busy. 

“Phoebus!” 

The Greek slave appeared around the door again. “Yes, dominus?”

“I’ll be late tonight. Might need some food. Something cold will do.” Sherlock seemed to be gathering up supplies. He thrust a wax tablet and stylus at John to hold. “We’ve got a case, Phoebus! Come along, John.”

“Both of you?” He looked almost jealous. John inched around him to leave the room, Sherlock close behind.

“No sense in sitting around when there’s something fun to do! The game is finally on!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who reads/comments/kudos etc. I couldn't do it without you.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo! I feel like I'm keeping up rather well with this whole updating thing. Thanks to everyone who reads/comments/kudos, etc. I realize the Lestrade/Sherlock dynamic is a bit different in this fic vs. canon, but it's just an artistic choice I've decided to make. Cheers!

John leaned heavily on his new cane. Sherlock had given it to him a few days before, but it wasn’t worth it to use around the villa. When Lestrade mentioned the suicide victim being located in the Suburra, John didn’t know where that was, but it was the first time he’d left in a few days so he was grateful nonetheless. He was hoping it was close by.

Of course, he was quite wrong. As they walked and walked, the villas disappeared and gave way to rickety apartments.

“ _Insula._ ” Sherlock pointed to the first large apartment building they saw.

“Island?” Using the cane, John was moving slowly, but Sherlock seemed to be making a visible effort to match pace with the slave despite his long legs. 

"Yes and no. It's an interesting word and I figured you might not know it's dual meaning. Insula does mean island, but it's also come to mean an apartment building. I suppose they're like their own island. Microcosm of our so called civilization." They rounded a corner to see a large space in between two such buildings. Sherlock inclined his head as they passed by. "they are also very prone to fires and collapse."

"What a tragedy..." John's cane made a pleasing, deep sound as it struck the paving stones. They crossed the street quickly when no carts were to be seen. 

Sherlock wrinkled his nose as a foul smell began to waft down the street. “Perhaps I should have inquired as to the location of our victim before I agreed to assist. People here have no indoor plumbing to speak of. You ought to be quite happy my ancestors were good with money. They dump their refuse onto the street here."

As if the gods decided to demonstrate, Sherlock spotted a pot being hoisted out of a window. He grabbed John by the shoulder and almost threw him across the street. They just made it to safety before the offending substance made it to the ground. 

John made a noise of disgust. "Remind me to join in your prayers next morning. I'd like to thank those ancestors."

Sherlock turned his head so John wouldn't see his smile. “It won’t be much farther now, Lestrade said we were looking for an apartment across from The White Swan _taberna_. Don’t let the name fool you; it’s likely to be a very disreputable establishment.” John grunted his assent and Sherlock watched the cane as it helped the slave hobble down the street. Secretly he was still hoping that the psychosomatic limp would eradicate itself. Part of him wondered if after John had run from those men on the street that it would have cured itself. No such luck.

“Perhaps we should hire a litter to get back. What do you think about that, John?” Sherlock smiled at the slave who only stared back. 

John rolled his eyes. “Like last time, you mean?”

That wiped the smile right off Sherlock’s face. He really needed to teach that slave some gratitude. “Not like last time, I was proposing we’d share it. However,” he made a large show of shrugging, “we can just walk back if you’d like. It’s not as oppressively hot today as it was last time. Your call.” He spotted the tavern in question. “Ah! Here we are. Let’s go meet our victim.”

John shook his head at Sherlock’s glee and followed him into the apartment building. He wasn’t sure he’d actually like to share a litter with Sherlock. It seemed too nice for a master and slave. Too suspicious. What would Sherlock want from him after such a gift?

Curiously, the entire building seemed empty. Sherlock practically bounded up the stairs to the first floor as he heard Lestrade barking orders. He burst into the room, quickly taking note of his surroundings. Time to go to work.

John had witnessed death before. On the battlefield he had wrought death. On the healer’s bed he had staved off death. The woman lying on her stomach in the middle of the floor bore no special significance to him and her presence was no shock. Still the smell of her body, clearly left for a few days in the horrible Roman heat, caused him to stagger back in the doorway. John Watson was no coward. He took one deep breath and pushed into the room, determined to prove himself as Sherlock’s assistant.

Sherlock was already bent over the body, moving back her blond hair to examine her face. John tried to hand Sherlock the wax tablet. 

Sherlock laughed as he continued his examination. “That’s for you. I thought you might want to take notes. I never do.”

How oddly thoughtful. John opened it and pulled out the stylus, poised and ready.

Lestrade burst into the room. “Valerius Flaccus! You made it! I’m very grateful.”

Sherlock made a noise of discontent.

Lestrade coughed, embarrassed. “Sorry, Sherlock. Feel free to do whatever you need to do.”

John saw Sherlock’s lips tighten as he continued to ignore Lestrade. Sherlock never seemed to desire permission to do anything.

Sherlock lifted a crescent moon shaped amulet from under the woman’s _stola._ “Ah… Interesting. John, this is a girl’s _lunula_. Very curious. They are worn by female children until their wedding where they would discard children’s clothing in favor of a woman’s _stola_. The victim is wearing both.” He fingered the chain. “Quite a fine piece of jewelry along with this dress. Take a look at the clasp, John. What do you think?” He held it up for the slave to examine causing the girl’s head to rise slightly off the floor pulled by the chain. Lestrade cringed at the scene.

“It looks very new.” The clasp was much shinier than the rest of the necklace where the gold had turned dull with age.

Sherlock nodded and lowered the victim’s head back to the floor. “Indeed. She recently had just the clasp replaced because it broke. She was removing it very often. This is not a piece of jewelry you would want to remove often as it signifies a freeborn child. I believe she was removing it to seem older, possibly to meet a man.”

Lestrade raised his eyebrows. “And how do you know that?”

Sherlock stood up, knees popping from the strain. “She’s a young woman, a bit older than the normal age for marriage. She’s a senator’s daughter evidenced by the expensive jewelry and dress. Not only did she have enough money to steal from her parents to buy the dress, but there was enough that what she took wouldn’t have been noticed as missing. Even her shoes are silver plated.” John didn’t even see Sherlock inspect the shoes, but he was right, silver plated sandals. 

“And how does that help us?”

Lestrade should have been grateful that the room was empty and Sherlock didn’t have anything to throw at him. John smirked in amusement as his master rounded on the aedile, eyes flashing. Let someone else be the recipient of his ire.

“Should I solve the whole case for you?” Sherlock spat.

Lestrade’s face reddened. “I was sort of hoping...”

“John!” Sherlock snapped his fingers, resolving to ignore Lestrade. “Examine the body.”

John stopped himself from looking to Lestrade for permission. He had to remember that Sherlock was his master and what Sherlock wanted, he got. With considerable effort to maneuver his leg into position, John was able to kneel by the body. A voice down the hall called for Lestrade.

“What am I doing here?” John whispered even though Lestrade had left to answer the call.

“Helping me to make a point.” Sherlock smiled gently and gestured to the body again.

“I’m supposed to be serving your food and helping you dress.” John tried to remember that he wasn’t there to be Sherlock’s friend. 

Sherlock smiled even wider. “Yes, well, this is more fun.” 

“Fun? A young woman is dead.”

“Perfectly sound analysis.” Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “But I was hoping you’d go deeper.” He winked.

Whatever that meant, John ignored it. That seemed to be the best policy with Sherlock. He leaned towards the woman’s head and took a long sniff. He detected the smell of vomit over the decomposition. Her hands were unblemished and clear of any defensive wounds.   
“Choked, probably on her own vomit. No signs of a struggle.” Sherlock looked at him expectantly, like he was waiting for more information. “That’s it.”

Lestrade reentered the room and clapped his hands. “So what do we know?”

Sherlock stood up, brushing off dirt from the floor that had clung to his toga. “She was a senator’s daughter, running away with a lover. She’s young, probably only seventeen, but unmarried. She ran away from home quickly judging by the size of her bag. It wasn’t planned.” John looked around for a bag, but besides the body, the room was completely empty. Maybe Sherlock was crazy. It wouldn’t be that far of a stretch.

“Bag?” Lestrade seemed to be thinking just like John.

“Yes, yes.” Sherlock waved his hand. John couldn’t count how many times a day he did that. “Her lover will be poor, but not poor enough to live here.”

Lestrade’s mouth wrinkled. “If you’re just making this up...”

Sherlock shot John a look that said, “can you believe that Lestrade doesn’t trust me?” John didn’t either.

“The clasp on her lunula has been replaced. Clearly she doesn’t want to be viewed as a child by her lover. She’s wearing a ring,” Sherlock pointed to her left hand. “It’s not even close to the quality of her amulet or her dress, but it’s more expensive than someone who would live here could afford. She had a bag.” Sherlock looked at Lestrade like he dared him to question it. “It was small meaning she made a quick decision to leave. If it was planned, she would have taken more of her clothing. Something must have changed...Ah!” He threw up his hands. “Her parents engaged her to be married. Find all the senator’s who recently engaged their daughter. One of them is missing.”

“That’s brilliant!” The words slipped from John’s mouth and when Sherlock whipped around to chastise him for the outburst, John remembered their first meeting and his reaction to John’s praise. “Sorry,” he mumbled. Despite all evidence to the contrary, John was just waiting for that final act that brings Sherlock to corporal punishment or worse, to sell him. A year ago, if you had told John Watson that his greatest fear was going to be his master selling him, he would laughed until he passed out.

Sherlock just looked away, his face an emotionless mask.

“I don’t see a bag.” Lestrade crossed his arms. He was running out of patience. It was a mistake to bring Sherlock here, to trust Mycroft. Maybe this was Mycroft’s way of saying that he didn’t deserve to be a praetor. You couldn’t trust anyone in this city.

Sherlock bent down and yanked the dress off the girl’s right shoulder, exposing a deep red line dug into the flesh. “It was pulled off of her here. The strap made a thin line; a thin strap means a smaller bag. You wouldn’t carry a whole trunk’s worth of clothing in a bag with this small a strap.” Lestrade’s face visibly reddened. 

“Fantastic!” John didn’t even try to stop himself that time. Maybe Sherlock hadn’t ever been supported before. Besides the one dinner party that John had witnessed, the only people Sherlock had contact with were the slaves he passed orders along to. Didn’t he have friends?

An assistant stood in the doorway and called Lestrade to confer. John caught snippets of the conversation, something about the owner of the building wanting the mess cleaned up.

“Are you aware you do that out loud?” Sherlock shook his head, curls bouncing. “I’ve said that before.”

Caught again. Nothing seemed to slip past Sherlock’s attention. “Sorry, dominus. I’ll stop.”

“No...” Sherlock regarded him with a curious look, one that he couldn’t quite place. He seemed to be trying to control his shock and pride and having a very rough time of it. “It’s fine.”

Lestrade had finished informing the assistant that the owner would have to wait until the end of the day. “Sorry about that. He really wants to rent out this building, but unfortunately a suicide is a bit more important. We need to figure out who she is.”

“It’s not a suicide and I already gave you more than enough information to find her identity.” Sherlock cut in. “Idealistic young women who run away with their lovers don’t commit suicide like this. Where’s the bag?”

Lestrade shrugged and looked around. “We didn’t find one.”

“Oh! Good, good.” Sherlock began to pace around, his long legs peeking out from under his toga with every step. 

“The note?” Lestrade gestured angrily to the word carved in the wooden floor. John guessed that carving that word would have been very difficult and painful. Two of the nails on her left hand were practically torn off and embedded in the wood. He wasn’t sure the word was even in Latin.

“Zenobios...” Sherlock looked to John as he was thinking. “It’s a name, Greek.”

John scribbled it onto the wax tablet. He was becoming quite partial to this type of note taking. Pushing the stylus into fresh, unmarred wax was a satisfying feeling. 

“It means life of Zeus, who is a Greek god, John, the equivalent to our Jupiter.” Sherlock narrowed his eyes at nothing in particular, apparently lost in thought. “Good, that might help us. Come, John. We have work to do and a serial killer to catch and serial killers always make mistakes.” John quickly closed his tablet, pushing the wooden stylus into the special pouch.

“Serial killer? Isn't that going a bit far?”

If looks could kill, a very large portion of the people who came into contact with Sherlock would be dead. “Lestrade,” He said his name with a low drawl and a shiver ran down John’s spine. He wasn’t sure if it was out of fear. “I think we have more than established that this is a serial killer, do keep up. Find the bag.” Sherlock looked down at the body again. “Oh. Oh!”

John hurriedly unlaced the wax tablet again in case Sherlock had a huge revelation.

Lestrade stood in the doorway, eyebrows raised and seemingly unfazed by Sherlock’s murderous looks. “Care to share?”

Sherlock smiled and for John that was even more unsettling than a glare. “He made a mistake. Pink!” John looked down and saw what he had been blind to before. The ribbon in the girl’s blond hair was pink. Her dress was layers on layers of varying shades of pink. Even her sandals were silver plated leather, but the leather was pink. He knew what Sherlock was trying to say. The bag had to be pink as well. No one knew why he couldn’t just say that in the first place, but John had some feeling of pride that he was able to figure it out.

Without another word, Sherlock strode out of the room, practically elbowing Lestrade out of the way. John tried to smile sympathetically to Lestrade, as if to apologize for his master’s behavior, but the returning look was affronted. John curled his fingers into his palms, nails digging into the skin. He wasn’t going to learn, was he? He was nothing to Lestrade; he didn’t owe him an apology for Sherlock. He was Sherlock’s property. John had tried to be kind to Sherlock, praise him for his _deductions_ , but he was certainly not his friend.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, sorry for the late update. I got extremely sick last week, my professors decided to rain hell down in the form of homework, and I started binge watching Parks and Rec. Needless to say I haven't gotten a lot of work done in the actual work department much less working on this fic. Today I neglected a bit of that work to pound this chapter out! Hope it's worth it <3

Sherlock was completely silent as they set off towards his home. John could almost feel the wheels turning in his mind. It wouldn’t even surprise him if by the time they got home, Sherlock had solved the mystery. Maddening, that man was. He couldn't stand him and yet… Yet, John didn't really know how he felt about his master. The man was an enigma, that part was solidly clear, and it seemed as though he was just as intrigued by John.

A few streets over, Sherlock approached two large men standing on the corner next to a fairly sizable litter. 

John had completely forgotten Sherlock’s suspicious offer. He had planned to say no if Sherlock asked him again, but it seemed as though the detective decided against asking the slave for his opinion. The sun had risen higher in the sky and it was much hotter. John’s leg was tired from standing around in the small apartment and having to kneel next to the body. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea.

Oh, John was wrong. Riding in a litter with Sherlock was a terrible idea. Possibly the worst idea Sherlock had ever subjected him to.

He realized it as soon as they had climbed inside. Before he could even get himself situated, the two men had hoisted it upon their shoulders, wildly pitching to one side. John wouldn’t want to cross those men at night. The strength they had to have to carry the litter with the two men inside was immense.

Inside the litter, which was darkened by heavy curtains, were two cushions on each end. Sherlock took the rear cushion and when John climbed in after him, he was forced to sit facing his master.

John wasn’t a tall man, but the length of the litter was such that his feet came to rest right in front of Sherlock’s cushion. Sherlock, on the other hand, was a tall man who had extraordinarily long legs. He stretched out those legs and placed them right next to John on the cushion, making it so that he couldn’t move without either touching the wall of the litter to his left or Sherlock to his right. John scooted up against the wall of the litter as far as he could go, tensing all of his muscles to keep from touching Sherlock.

He eyed the slave suspiciously. “John, the point of using a litter is to relax.”

He forced a few muscles to relax just as a show of good faith. “Solve the case yet?” John gave a nervous laugh. He needed to get a grip on himself. They were riding in a litter, not charging into battle. 

Sherlock gave him that look that made John truly question whether or not he could read his mind. “John… your behavior at the apartment...”

Great. Not only was John feeling extremely uncomfortable, but Sherlock was going to yell at him. “Yes, dominus?” 

Sherlock shook his head, curls bouncing about. “You know what? Why don’t you just read me your notes. Seemed like you were really into it.”

John wanted to open the curtain and throw Sherlock out. “What about my behavior?”

“The notes, John. Let’s discuss those.” Sherlock wore a tense smile and looked John straight in the eyes, almost like he was daring him to call him out on his avoidance of the question.

“Right...” John unlaced the strings that held the leafs of the cover over the tablet. Riding in the litter was surprisingly smooth. He expected there to be some jarring from the men walking over the hard stone streets. He could get used to this mode of travel.

“Read them to me.” Sherlock commanded and closed his eyes.

John took that moment to stare at his master just for what felt like no time at all. His hair was messy, brutalized by Sherlock during his deductions. John noticed that he liked to tug on it a lot. Perhaps he should have a haircut. Something military like John. He tried to imagine it. No… definitely not.

Sherlock had these long, sweeping eyelashes that John could see even from across the litter in the gloom. They seemed rather feminine, but oddly fitting. Sherlock had a slightly effeminate face, smooth pale skin, and those expressive pale pink lips. John had never seen a face like his, but then again he had never met anyone like him. 

His eyes were drawn down Sherlock’s neck, which was rather long and regal. John was embarrassed at himself for even thinking of a neck as regal. As his neck met his shoulders, his bones jutted out prominently. It would be a wonder to study anatomy on Sherlock. John knew that Sherlock didn’t eat nearly enough and that you could see many of his bones quite clearly, but Sherlock had hidden strength as well. Under that toga…

Sherlock opened one eye. “Are you going to read your notes, John, or are you going to keep staring at me? Must I order you to do so?”

John swallowed over the lump in his throat. “No. Sorry.”

Sherlock closed his eyes again, more tentatively this time.

“Single victim. Woman. Probably 17 or 18. Empty apartment, note carved into floor. Died here, but was she killed here? Probably poison. Relationship to killer? Was it the man she was running away with? Sherlock insists she had a bag. Pink.” Sherlock chuckled. “How was she lured into the abandoned apartment? She wouldn’t have been familiar with the neighborhood or the people. What does the note mean? Ask Sherlock if I can research religion.”

“Good start, John. You’re right; it probably was poison. It’s a popular method of many killers in Rome, especially women, but I don’t think it’s a woman that we are dealing with here. As to your question about mythology, I do believe that it would be beneficial for you to research it. I’m afraid I can’t help you much there.” Sherlock’s eyes were still closed, but there was a ghost of a smile on his lips. John couldn’t help but interpret it as a sign that he was pleased by his notes.

“You can’t help because you’ll be busy working on other parts of the case?”

Sherlock laughed and finally opened his eyes, blue piercing the darkness. “Just because I pray every once and a while and observe certain practices mostly for the benefit of others’ superstitions does not mean that I am a veritable source on our gods.”

“Do you believe in them?”

“Will believing in these gods help solve the mystery?” His eyebrows disappeared under that messy hair.

John smiled and tilted his head, “in this case, maybe yes.”

Sherlock laughed, breaking eye contact with John to quickly part the curtains of the litter to check their location. The harsh sunlight that streamed in caused John to screw eyes shut. “Fair point, John. However, in this case, it is your job to find out the relation between our pink loving victim and those who may or may not exist.”

“Fair point yourself.” They laughed together, master and slave.

~~~~~~~~~

John occupied a chair on the opposite side of Sherlock’s office from his desk, surrounded by scrolls on Greek and Roman gods and stories. He was trying to focus on just Zeus and Jupiter, but kept getting distracted. John really couldn’t blame himself. The only thing crazier than the Romans might be their gods. Lupercus was the god of shepherds, which seemed rather tame, but the ensuing festival where young men dressed in wolf skins flicked blood onto young women to promote fertility on the other hand kept John distracted for quite some time. 

Sherlock seemed to forget that John was in the room. When John got tired of reading, which was more often than he’d like to admit, he’d look up to see Sherlock pouring over a new scroll. He could read faster than John could ever imagine. Not once did John see Sherlock look at him. That really wasn’t a problem. John actually thought about poking Sherlock in the face since he was mostly sure the man wouldn’t notice.

The door to the office swung open silently. “John,” Phoebus whispered, waving a hand to get his attention.

“Ah, Phoebus,” Sherlock didn’t take his eyes off the scroll he was reading. “Is there something I can help you with? Do we have a visitor?”

Apparently Sherlock was more observant than he had thought. Phoebus scrunched his nose. “No, dominus. I need John.”

Sherlock looked up at John who was rolling up one of many collections of religious stories. “You need John.” He repeated. “Fine, I can spare him for a bit, but bring him back as soon as possible.”

“I’m not a lamp or something.”

Sherlock tilted his head, looking utterly confused. “Of course you are not, John.”

John rolled his eyes, turning away so Sherlock couldn’t see and left with Phoebus. He led them down the hallway towards the front door. 

“We do have a visitor, but not for Sherlock. For you. He’ll meet you in the entrance.”

“Me? Wait!” Clearly Phoebus had no intentions of sticking around and darted down another hallway before they reached the door. Who could have Phoebus so rattled?

Ah. John rounded the corner to see the door slave at his usual post and a man with his back to John, inspecting some decorative scroll on the wall.

“I should have known it would be you, Mycroft. How can I help you?”

Mycroft turned around, his toga swinging elegantly. It probably cost more than all the money John had ever seen in his life. “I see Sherlock has still neglected to teach you any manners. John, was it?”

John nodded stiffly, fists clenched behind his back. 

“What is the nature of your relationship with my brother?”

“Well I am his _slave._ ” If John learned one important thing that day, it was not about the festival Lupercalia or anything else related to gods and goddesses. It was that Mycroft got a very specific look on his face when he was angry, like he smelled something horrible and was being told he had to smell that for the rest of his life.

“You are very lucky that I have no intentions of speaking with Sherlock today. I’m sure he’d be very interested to learn of your behavior.” Mycroft’s fingers twitched around the head of his cane.

John shrugged, determined not to show any fear or anger. “I’m pretty sure Sherlock already knows about my behavior.”

Mycroft visibly swallowed. “Lestrade gave me a report on Sherlock and yourself at the crime scene yesterday. He said you were constantly praising him and bouncing around him like a dog or some equally insufferable creature.” 

John raised his eyebrows and gestured for him to get to the point.

Mycroft’s eyes flashed dangerously, but he made no move towards the slave. “I want to know if Sherlock is giving you some sort of incentive for your behavior, like money, or if your relations are genuine.”

“What does it matter to you?” John clenched and unclenched his hands in a fruitless attempt to steady himself.

Mycroft shrugged languorously. “If it is genuine, there is something in it for you, John.”

“Something in it for me?”

Mycroft opened a small wax tablet unlike John’s own in that the housing for the wax was decorated with inlaid stones and metal. “I’m prepared to offer you a weekly sum for your troubles.”

If being offered a litter ride concerned John, this made that seem like nothing. “In exchange for what?”

With fingers much shorter and less elegant than his brother’s, Mycroft began to lace up the tablet again. “Nothing untoward, John. I just want to know what Sherlock’s up to. He’s not very forthcoming. Whatever information you feel you want to share.”

John shook his head immediately. “No, thank you.”

Mycroft laughed as if he expected the reaction, but still couldn't believe it. “I didn't even tell you how much I could offer you. You could be home to Britain in less than a year.”

John froze in disbelief. That’s how Mycroft was going to play. “I’m not going to betray Sherlock for you.” He turned to go.

“You don’t seem to be the type to make friends easily, John. Phoebus told me you don’t associate with any of the other slaves. You only talk with Sherlock.”

This was just getting better. How many of Sherlock’s slaves currently lined their pockets with ill gotten gains from Mycroft? “Is that a problem? Many of them don’t speak Latin.”

Mycroft stared John down for a few tense seconds. “Good luck here, John,” He crossed quickly to the door, waving down the door slave when he rose from his stool. “When you become friends with Sherlock, you march straight into battle.”

“Good thing I've already done that then, thanks.”

Mycroft shook his head as though John was missing the point. “You’re not haunted by the war, John Watson, you miss it. Welcome to the heart of the battle. Time to choose a side.” Not giving John a chance to respond, he opened the door and with speed unfit for a man that carried a cane, disappeared through it.

“Thanks for the warning?” John whispered after him. 

“John! I need you!” Sherlock’s voice rang clear through the house and John had the terrifying thought that he could have easily heard everything that transpired.

He spun on his heel and saluted in the direction of the office. Back into battle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TREAT YO'SELF!! (Sorry.... I have a real problem.)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! If you'd like to chat about this fic, say hello, or whatever you want, feel free to message me on tumblr at muertaviviente. I'd love to hear your thoughts or have the opportunity to thank you for reading! 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter! <3

Chapter 8

John wandered around Sherlock’s villa aimlessly. It was empty and sleepy in the mid afternoon heat. He hadn’t ever gone back to the library to finish Sherlock’s scroll on the _Science of Deduction_ , but he wasn’t quite bored enough for that yet. It was day three without seeing Sherlock. The same day Mycroft had come to bribe John, Sherlock had slipped off under the guise of running some errand. He had been gone so long that John didn’t believe that anymore. 

Should he look for the man? He wouldn’t know where to start, but if he had run into trouble John might be the only one to care enough to miss him. Maybe the other slaves hadn’t even noticed that he was gone.

If anyone knew anything it would be Mycroft or Phoebus. Unfortunately he didn’t know where to find Mycroft so the other slave was his best bet. 

Phoebus had a room near John’s own. John nudged aside the curtain to see him lounging languidly on the bed, a female slave perched on the end. 

“Oh no... sorry.” John flushed deep red and backed out of the room, tripping over his feet. His back hit the wall. 

The slave girl ran out of the room, giggling. She flashed John a smile and a wink with dark, long lashes. With her curly black hair bouncing after her down the hallway, John couldn’t help but be reminded of Sherlock. In looks perhaps she was a perfect feminine match, but Sherlock would probably never be caught giggling. 

Phoebus appeared from behind the curtain, tunic nudged off one shoulder. “John? Is there something you need? Something wrong?”

“Oh, I’m so sorry I interrupted you like that.” John could only imagine how red his face must be.

Phoebus laughed, leaning against the door frame. “ _Pax_ (Peace), John, Sherlock isn’t here. And even if he was, he wouldn’t notice. Slaves do this sort of thing all the time, not like you actually even saw anything.” He fixed John with a narrowed eyed stare, “Are Britons shy about this sort of thing?”

“Uh no… Not everyone, I mean I’m sure some are… I’m not, but...”

“Right,” Phoebus cut off John’s ramblings. “Did you need something?” He repeated firmly.

“Sherlock. Where has he gone?”

Immediately, a smile worked its way onto Phoebus’s lips and he laughed gently. “You’ll have to wait until he gets back. That’s how these things work.”

That didn’t satisfy John. “We’re working on a case. I need to know where he is.”

Phoebus straightened up. “Look, I know you think that you’re important to Sherlock or some business like that just because he took you on a case, but it won’t last long. It never does. He’ll get bored of you and then you’ll spend these days off with girls like the rest of us. Go and be grateful he isn’t here to annoy us all.”

Although he was much smaller than the Greek slave, John pounced on him, grabbing the front of his tunic roughly. His eyes bulged out as panic seized him. “Listen up, Phoebus. While what you said might be true, Sherlock is good to us and I’m not going to listen to you talk shit about him.”

Phoebus seemed to gather his nerves, narrowed his eyes, and pulled John’s hand off of him. “You don’t own me. Find him yourself. _Efutue_. (Fuck off.)” He stalked off back into the bedroom, leaving John panting from the adrenaline. He was quickly on his way to making a lot of friends in this house. 

Knuckles connected with the wall, sending sharp pain up his arm and split skin on his fingers. “Ha’ou!” He cursed under his breath. He would wander the streets of Rome looking for Sherlock, or at the very least Mycroft, rather than let him lie in a ditch somewhere. 

John quickly jogged to his room to grab his flimsy shoes and tried to prepare himself by the front door. Maybe he did have the whole city of Rome to search, but he couldn’t just sit here and have a clear conscience.

“John,” The door slave, normally half asleep at his post, waved a hand to get John’s attention.

“I don’t know your name...” Great, more good impressions on his fellow slaves.

The man shrugged. “Afer. I heard you talking with Phoebus.” His Latin was slow and halting, but exact.

John nodded. 

“I know where to find Sherlock.”

That piqued John’s interest. “Really? Where?”

“You’ll need to turn right and walk until you come to a tavern with a red door. I can’t read the sign so you’ll have to remember the door. Turn left there and knock on the third door on the right. The master will be there.”

“Red door, turn left, third door on the right. Got it. Thank you.” John breathed a sigh of relief; an address narrowed his search immensely. “Wait, how do you know for sure where he is?”

The slave smiled briefly, hiding it behind his hand. “I have accompanied him there many times. You will find him there.”

“And what is there exactly?” John wanted to be prepared for anything.

Afer shook his head slowly. “You’ll have to find out for yourself. Good luck.”

John nodded, but felt more anxious. From Afer’s words it didn’t appear as though he’d find Sherlock picking flowers in a field. He hoped it wasn’t dangerous. Maybe once he found him, he could speak to Sherlock about getting a weapon of some sort. 

Outside the heat was oppressive. John was only wearing a tunic of light cotton, but almost immediately he began to sweat through it. Sherlock better be in dire trouble for all the effort he was going through.

He was walking quite a while before he began to get nervous. There were no red doors yet. There were a few doors that could have passed as red, faded or red wood. How far should he walk until he turned back for better directions?

Luckily, John was able to answer that question just around the next curve in the road. A tavern sat at the corner with a garishly painted red door. The name was The Red Door. This had to be it. 

Immediately he was angry at Sherlock. The tavern and the alley to his left were extremely shady and the people seated at the tables outside the establishment looked straight out of John’s nightmares of the war. They were all great, hulking men grasping cracked clay cups full of what had to be terrible wine. A few of them had caught sight of John loitering on the corner and were exchanging looks that could never bode well for a slave. He wisely set off to the left.

The doors down the alley were spaced well apart so it was quite a walk again until John came to the third one. It was completely unmarked with nothing to prepare him for what was within. Fist poised to knock, he took a deep breath to steel his nerves.

Fist connected with well worn wood and the door opened just a crack. John could only make out the eye of the person inside as it was dark and smoky. 

“Password?” The voice was deep and gravelly. Most definitely not Sherlock.

“I’m looking for Sherlock Valerius-”

The door shut loudly and he heard a lock being moved into place.

“No!” John started banging on the door. “You have to let me in!” He shouted to make sure he could be heard past the thick wooden door. “I’m looking for Valerius Flaccus!”

The door opened again with an even smaller crack than before. “No one here with that name. You’re scaring the customers. Be quiet and go away.” It slammed shut.

John Watson may be a captured slave, but he was no coward. He fought in the war, running across battlefields to retrieve the injured while arrows and spears flew above his head. He sweated above comrades as he tended their wounds and stitched limbs together to save their lives. He lost men; he healed men. He was not going to leave Sherlock in this place even if it killed him. He would not be responsible for his master’s demise.

He took a step back and assumed a balanced stance. If he hit the door near the lock, it might just work. He had never broken down a door this thick before, but army training had a way of building a decent amount of muscle.

 _Whack!_ John hit his target, but the door barely even creaked.

“Hey! Stop that!” He had no intention of stopping unless he was allowed in. John waited a few seconds, regaining his breath and allowing the person to possibly open the door. Nothing.

 _Whack!_ This time a crack appeared near the lock and ran halfway up the door. John tossed aside his shoes. Surprisingly sandals made of plants weren’t made for kicking down doors.

 _Whack!_ With a great crash, John and the door fell right into a surprised slave. 

“You can’t do that!”

John stood up and brushed the dust off his tunic. His eyes struggled to adjust to the smoky gloom. “Bring me to Sherlock.”

The slave rolled his eyes. “Look, I don’t know any of these peoples’ names and even if I did I wouldn’t help you. You’ll have to find him yourself.”

Before John was a long corridor, but he could only see part way down it through the darkness. He had come this far; he could find him. The smell of the smoke was curious, but he couldn’t place it.

The first door he came to he knocked and then entered. Inside a man laid on his side, smoking from a pipe. He looked up and smiled wanly at John. 

“No,” John whispered. He was going to kill Sherlock. Immediately he recognized the smell and the state of the man before him. This was much worse than he imagined.

He flew from door to door in a rage finding every occupant in similar arrangements. On the end of the hall he found his mark. Sherlock was also laying on his side, lips wrapped around a pipe. His toga was lying in a heap on the floor while Sherlock’s tunic was dangerously high on his hips. He wasn’t in control of his mental faculties enough to look surprised when John burst in.

“Sherlock Valerius Flaccus!” John grabbed the pipe from Sherlock and threw it against the wall.

“That is my name and I was smoking that.” Sherlock’s voice was slow and deeper than normal. He sat up with some difficulty. “Hello, John.”

“Opium! How dare you! A young girl was murdered, a murder which we were tasked to solve, and here you are wasting yourself on opium.” John snatched up the toga and roughly folded it. No sense in forcing Sherlock into it for the walk home.

Sherlock sighed heavily. “I was working on the case, in my mind. It helps to slow my thoughts.”

“I don’t care. We’re going.” John thrust out his hand and hauled Sherlock to his feet. His skin was uncomfortably clammy and sweaty. His hair stuck to forehead and his eyes were glassy. Sherlock was a mess.

He made no move to follow John out of the room so he grabbed his master’s hand and practically hauled him down the hallway. Sherlock seemed to be sore for leaving and purposefully dragged his feet.

They passed the slave, sweeping up the dust from John’s unceremonious entrance to the opium den.

“Did you do that?” Sherlock gasped.

John nodded roughly and pushed past the slave to get to fresh air. “Yes and I’m sure they will be sending you the bill for it.”

The slave shouted after them. “We will! See you soon Valerius Flaccus.”

John turned and shot him a deadly look causing the slave to scurry back inside.

“Why? Why did you come looking for me?” Sherlock leaned heavily on John as they walked slowly down the alley. 

John stared straight ahead, still seething with anger. “We are in the middle of a case, trying to solve the murder of a young woman who was taken from her parents and her lover. They deserve to know what happened to her. I have been reading countless tales of Zeus while Lestrade questions Senators to find her family. You have disappeared for the last three days without telling any of us where you have been.”

“Several of my slaves knew where I was. I assume that’s how you found me. You are angry with me.” His voice was frank without any hint of the guilt John was looking for. He expected Sherlock to feel bad for what he had done. Really he should have known better.

“Afer told me after Phoebus yelled at me for trying to find you. I expected you to be lying half dead in a ditch somewhere.”

Sherlock laughed. “Really?”

John shot Sherlock a look that could kill. It was quickly becoming his signature. “I thought that was the only rational explanation for why you’d be gone so long during a case.”

“Hmm.” Sherlock seemed lost in thought as they came to the intersection at the tavern with the red door. At this rate, they wouldn’t be home until long after dark.

One of the men who had eyed John suspiciously earlier stood and waved. “Sherlock! You were gone for quite a while. Good, wasn’t it?”

Sherlock waved weakly back. “Indeed. Any news?”

The man and his two companions all shook their heads. “Nothing yet. We’ll let you know.”

Sherlock and John continued down the street at a slightly faster pace. “See, John? I was working. I have a web of people across the city on the lookout for a distressed man looking for a Senator’s daughter. Perhaps not that likely a venture, but worth a try.”

John grunted as the only reply.

After only walking what John estimated to be less than a quarter of the way, Sherlock stopped and leaned against the wall. “Ugh I’m exhausted.” They were in a nicer and more well lit area of Rome with people milling about. “We’ll wait here for a litter to pass by. I’m not walking any farther.”

John huffed. Who knew that smoking opium would make Sherlock even more insufferable. “Fine.”

“Not like you really had a choice,” Sherlock said flippantly. John wisely chose not to respond.

It didn’t take long for a proper litter to pass by, two men carrying it low to the ground which apparently signaled there was no one inside. Sherlock hailed them by raising his arm weakly. 

John stood idly while Sherlock negotiated the price. Apparently opium also made him stingy. 

They clambered inside similar to John's other ride. Too close to Sherlock in way too small of a space. He sat uncomfortably squished against the wall to avoid Sherlock's legs. 

“I’ll never understand your aversion to litters, John. Relax.”

John laughed uncomfortably. “The day you left for that _place_ your brother came to visit.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, mouth popping into a perfect O. “Mycroft?”

"Do you have another?" 

"What did he want? Try to coerce you into something nasty?" The expression on Sherlock’s face was wicked, like he thoroughly enjoyed someone else suffering at the hand of his brother rather than him. “Ooh did he offer you money to spy on me?”

“Yes.” How remarkably astute. It wouldn’t surprise John if Sherlock knew all about Phoebus and who knew how many other slaves being already deep in Mycroft’s pockets.

“And did you take it?” 

“No!” How remarkably offensive.

“Pity,” Sherlock shot him that look that made John feel like the stupidest man in Rome. “We could have split the fee. Think it through next time.”

John visibly relaxed. Sherlock didn’t actually think that he would have spied on him; he only wanted the money. “I thought your ancestors left you a lot of money.”

Sherlock shrugged. “It would be a pleasure to take Mycroft’s money.” He briefly parted the heavy curtains to check their location.

“Why do you do that?” John would be more than content to take a nap in the swaying litter if it weren’t for that damning man so close to him.

There was that “how could you be so stupid” look again and John regretted ever opening his mouth. “To check to see if we’re going in the right direction, John. Unscrupulous litter bearers will take unsuspecting passengers to unknown areas to rob them.”

“Why trust them then? Isn’t this the way most rich people get around?” They definitely didn’t have litters in Britain. A man was expected to be able to get where he needed to by his own two legs.

“It’s boring to walk and too damn hot in this infernal city. A reasonable amount of danger is acceptable. Besides, I have my trusty slave with me, do I not?” Sherlock grinned cheekily, the smile looking slightly out of place on his usually morose face. Almost immediately his face fell back into seriousness. “But, it is a bit of problem nowadays. Mycroft always tells me not to take a litter by myself.”

“Probably wise-”

Sherlock cut him off with a shout. “Oh! Oh! John, you are a genius! Litters!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cliffhanger! Sorta?


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so so so sorry that it's taken so long to get an update. School has gotten extremely busy and I hope everyone who follows this story (all two of you? :D) will forgive me. Exams are this week so I'm hoping to get more regular after that. 
> 
> Also, I'm thinking this story will end with ASiP and then a sequel will be up with another case. Thoughts?

Sherlock cut him off with a shout. “Oh! Oh! John, you are a genius! Litters!”

“Yes? Litters? We are riding in one, if that’s what you were wondering about. I’m sure the opium has quite addled your brain.”

Sherlock waved his hands around manically. “No, no, John. Shush, I’ve just thought of something important.”

Despite whatever discovery Sherlock had just made, John wanted to laugh. He was secretly excited every time he was able to successfully subvert his role as a slave. “Care to share?”

Sherlock fixed John with that piercing, hawkish gaze. “Who passes unnoticed wherever they go?”

“What? Is that supposed to be a riddle?”

One corner of Sherlock’s mouth raised in a smile. “Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?”

“You’re mad!” John wasn’t putting stock in anything Sherlock was saying. This was opium fueled madness, he knew it was.

“There are people we trust, always, when we’re alone, when we’re lost, when we’re drunk. Think, John!”

John had half a mind to jump out of the litter, just to avoid the crazy Sherlock sitting in front of him. He was never letting that man touch drugs again. “What does this have to do with the case?”

“Oh you are stupid!” Sherlock threw his hands up in exasperation.

“Hey!” Now that was just uncalled for. He had been nothing but helpful all day, maybe not so much when he broke down that door, but there was a reason behind it. John Watson didn’t just go around breaking down doors for the fun of it. In fact, his foot was going to be incredibly sore for the next few days. The pain hadn’t been evident in the craziness of rescuing Sherlock, but now that they were relaxing in the litter, the throbbing pain began to surface.

“Don’t take it like that. Nearly everyone is. Remember what I told you about litters being dangerous yet everyone still trusts them?” Sherlock was talking so fast now, John was having serious trouble keeping up. “This girl, this Senator’s daughter, wouldn’t be used to walking so far to the Suburra and furthermore she had no business being there! So how did she get there? It is highly unlikely that she and her lover chose that spot to meet up. She hired a litter on the street and naturally she was easy prey- carrying a bag with valuables and alone. They took her to the Suburra and killed her.” At the end, Sherlock was panting, his thin chest moving visibly up and down with the sheer force of his breaths. His smile was undeniable, yet highly inappropriate.

“Why didn’t they just rob her?” How was Sherlock so sure of this theory? Frankly it made John’s head spin. 

He narrowed his eyes and looked like he was just about to call John stupid again. “One issue at a time. Remember she wasn’t the first and she won’t be the last unless we solve this case. There has to be a reason why they are killing the victims. Maybe it’s not about the robbery...” As Sherlock trailed off, John knew he had lost him. He was deep in thought now and John could spend the rest of the smooth journey in silence and peace. 

The first day that they had met, Sherlock had advised him that if he needed a drink to tolerate his master’s presence that perhaps this was not the job for him. John felt lucky, and ultimately disgusted with himself for feeling that way, that Sherlock allowed him to help on cases and that his life wasn’t quite as bad as it could be. However, he could not deny that a drink would greatly aid him in this moment. Maybe he’d suggest the indulgence to Sherlock when they returned.

Too soon the litter stopped and after a quick check outside, Sherlock slid out and landed in an ungraceful heap on the ground. John tried desperately not to laugh as the man tried to brush the dust off of his toga. The two men lowered the litter to the ground and John stepped out.

“You should have waited until we were on the ground.” John smiled widely.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “I may have forgotten that bit.” He fished a couple of coins out of a pouch. John noticed it was much lighter than normal. “I’m glad I actually had enough left to pay.”

The two litter bearers glared at Sherlock and quickly walked away. 

“Not making many friends today, hmm?” 

Sherlock knocked on the door and rolled his eyes. “Being angry makes you very impudent.”

John almost protested, but perhaps it was better to let Sherlock think he was angry. Maybe he’d think twice about disappearing again. Like Sherlock would ever listen to him.

Afer opened the door and his eyes shot wide open when he caught sight of his master in the doorway. “Dominus!” He stood back to let the pair through then bolted the door behind them.

“I assume you assisted John here in finding me.” Sherlock stood with hands folded behind him and John was suddenly very afraid for the other slave. He turned away, wringing the toga in his hands over and over.

“Yes, dominus.” Afer stood facing his master, unblinking.

John whipped back around after hearing a slight chuckle from Sherlock. He wasn’t angry? “I suppose I ought to thank you then.”

“Not necessary, dominus.” Afer resumed his seat by the door and didn’t say another word.

Sherlock smiled gently at John. “I believe that one day, John, you won’t believe me to be a cruel master.” Sherlock had noticed his fear for the other slave. John nodded stiffly back. “I’ll get to work now, since I believe that was the whole point of coming to find me and breaking down that door. I won’t forget that.” He laughed again and the sound was almost unnerving to John. Sherlock headed in the direction of his study.

“Oh and John?” He turned back.

“Yes?” From the less than enthusiastic look on John’s face, Sherlock figured he wasn’t forgiven yet. It really didn’t matter to him how others thought of him…He thought had demonstrated good will towards John, but Sherlock wasn’t exactly known for his friendships or amicable acquaintances.

“You forgot this today.” Sherlock tossed the cane, which had been abandoned near the door, at the slave.

As he walked away, Sherlock smiled at John’s genuine laugh. Perhaps Mycroft had been right just this once.

~~~

It had been three days since John had last spoken to Sherlock. Perhaps that was his way of punishing the slave.

Sherlock mostly kept himself confined to his study, but John noticed him leave the villa several times over those three days. He never left for more than a few hours, returning swiftly. John wondered if this was for his benefit. If Sherlock had left for more than a day, he would have been right back in that opium den kicking down the door again. Sherlock must have known that. Perhaps he didn’t want to be dragged out screaming again. His pride might have been wounded.

On the afternoon of the third day, John had taken to walking around the villa. Phoebus seemed to refuse to give him orders, purposefully ignoring him whenever they were in the same room. During that little outburst before the opium incident, something Phoebus said struck John. “He’ll get bored of you and then you’ll spend these days off with girls like the rest of us.” Was there a time when Phoebus was the favored slave, gallivanting with Sherlock across Rome?

A loud shout cut off John’s thoughts. “John!” He breathed a sigh of relief at Sherlock’s voice. He was back in the game.

He rushed across the villa to the study and flew into the doorway.

John stopped dead in his tracks. Sherlock was bent over a bag, rummaging through the contents with a dissatisfied look on his face. It was the color of the bag that alarmed John. Pink.

Images of Sherlock, blood covered and crazed flashed through his mind. A scream rose in his throat. John sucked in a deep breath, ready to run.

Sherlock looked up at the sound, face entirely passive and mild. “I didn’t kill her, John, if that’s what you are thinking.” If he cared that John thought him a killer, it didn’t show on his face.

John let out the breath in a big whoosh and tried to sound as nonchalant as possible. “No!” He laughed nervously. “Never said you did.” He desperately tried to steady his racing heart.

The man on the floor seemed to peer right through John and again he had the distinct thought that Sherlock could read his mind. He shivered. 

“John.” Sherlock’s voice was even and measured. “Would you care to look through this bag?”

John walked over cautiously, still not quite believing that Sherlock wasn’t the murderer. “This is the girl’s bag, right?”

Sherlock pursed his lips, trying to suppress an eye roll. “It is a pink bag I usually carry around for myself! Of course it is the girl’s bag! Lestrade stopped by earlier when you were prancing around in the kitchen begging the slaves for scraps.” John immediately flushed. He wasn’t aware that Sherlock knew of his trips to the kitchen. “Lestrade has discovered the identity of our victim. Unbelievable, really.” He laughed shortly. “Who knew that aedile was actually capable of anything other than his ridiculous seduction of my brother.”

Sherlock stood up, long legs stretching, and sat back behind his desk to give John room to examine the bag. He leafed through it carefully, appraising each item. 

“She was indeed a Senator’s daughter, set to marry another man. Apparently her father says she became quite distraught and ran off. They didn’t know she had a lover though. Lestrade let that one slip. What do you see in there?”

“Clothing mostly, very expensive. A few scrolls. Obviously she was well read. Plato, Socrates, a few unmarked ones.” Sherlock nodded encouragingly. “Pieces of jewelry, again very expensive. Nothing else really.”

“And?”

John sat back on his heels. “And what? I just said there’s nothing else.”

He shook his head slowly. “If there is nothing else, look at what is not there.”

John looked on the outside of the bag, turning it over in his hands, trying to search for a clue to Sherlock’s question. How was he supposed to look at what was not there if it wasn’t there? Clearly Sherlock thought something important was missing. “Well as a Senator’s daughter, I would expect her to have more clothing and jewelry, but that’s a matter of space. I’m thinking that the presence of the scrolls is out of the ordinary.”

“John, you’re still looking at what is in the bag.” Sherlock leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “But yes, you’re right. I don’t know about Britain, but women are not generally concerned with literature here. Women with such knowledge are considered dangerous and ill fitted to be wives.” His speech was even slower than before and John wondered if this was a rare moment when his master became tired.

“Why don’t you have a wife?” John set the bag back down on the floor.

Sherlock snapped awake and he sat up rapidly. “What is missing from the bag, John?” He punctuated each word roughly and warning signs flashed in narrowed eyes. 

Must have struck a nerve then. “I don’t know! I’m not a sorcerer!”

Sherlock’s anger gave way to a little smile ghosting around his lips. He laughed lightly. “Is that what you think of me, John?” He opened his mouth to reply, but Sherlock brought up a hand to stop him. “No, don’t answer that. I know what you’ll say. If she can read, what else can she do?”

“Write.” Oh, it seemed obvious to John now. “A wax tablet?”

“I inquired after it and Lestrade informed me that it was taken from her home with these other belongings. Now, why would it be important?”

John stood up, stretching his legs. He quickly tired of this mental exercise, but tried not to let it show on his face. “Who took it?”

Sherlock stood up too, practically running to the other side of his desk. John noticed wryly that it only took him about two steps. “Exactly! Who took it, John?”

“Why take it? It was probably expensive, but then why not sell these items too if it was money they were after?”

“Oh!” Sherlock shouted, the sound verging on vulgar. “You are getting it now!”

The answer seemed to hit John like the wind out on the British Isle. “Information!”

A grin slowly spread across Sherlock’s face.

“Something that the murderers didn’t want getting out...” John searched for the clue in his mind, trying to avoid that ridiculous look on Sherlock’s face. He knew the situation was serious, they were trying to solve a girl’s murder for goodness sake, but that grin made John want to bust out laughing.

“Think!” Sherlock hissed.

“Her lover’s name?”

“Why would she forget that? Don’t be stupid; you’re almost there, John.”

It had to be important, maybe easy to forget, something that could lead them to the murderers… Come on, John. He could do this. Impress Sherlock for once rather than the opposite. 

“A meeting location? Where they were going before they ran away together?” John was unsure, but it was the best guess he had and it seemed like Sherlock wasn’t giving up.

“Precisely. Don’t ask me a question, though. You had it right. Be confident.” Sherlock grinned like he had just complimented John.

“A little hard to do that,” John chuckled lowly, “when you just called me stupid.”

Sherlock gathered up a wax tablet from his desk that John hadn’t noticed before. “Oh move on, John. Let’s go have dinner.”

“Dinner? What? Is that her tablet?” 

He looked down at it in surprise. “Of course not!”

John quickly crossed the room and grabbed it out of his hands. “This is Zeus, isn’t it?” He jabbed a finger at the inlaid design, a bearded and muscled god. “That’s what she meant by the word she scratched into the floor!”

Sherlock chewed his bottom lip, having the gall to look offended by the accusation. “Probably.”

“Did you kill her?” John demanded.

“No!” Sherlock shouted, then realized that didn’t have the desired effect. “No,” he repeated softer. “I found her bag in a trash pile near where the body was found and I figured they threw away the tablet farther away so I found it. Took a couple of trips, but you would have come after me if I stayed out too long.” He laughed to try to ease John’s nerves.

“I would have.” John stood up straighter in an almost military stance and thrust the tablet at Sherlock. “Well, what does it say?”

“Come to dinner and I’ll show you.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me begin this chapter by saying how ABSOLUTELY sorry I am that I haven't been diligently working on this. Time really got away from me then I struggled getting back into it. That aside, please enjoy this short penultimate chapter.

They were in some part of Rome John had never seen before. On the long walk, Sherlock had mentioned that the Suburra wasn’t too far away to the west. It would have been easy for the litter bearers to carry the unsuspecting girl there, he said. It bothered John the frank way that Sherlock handled these facts.

To John there was a young girl lying in that room with her hopes and dreams snuffed out for a reason they hadn’t discovered yet. In his mind he could see her still full of life and love, pouring over scrolls and twirling in the midday sun.

To Sherlock it seemed like she had been reduced to a series of facts and events. She went here, went there, murdered, end of story. It wasn’t like he totally lacked empathy. John saw how he handled the other slaves. Where he expected his master to explode and resort to bodily punishment, he was cool and forgiving. Sherlock, ever stoic in the face of adversity.

His master led them into a dusky tavern. His toga fluttered about as he settled into a chair opposite John and simultaneously waved over the serving girl.

“Two of your best warm wines and whatever is on special for my friend.” He laughed genially at the serving girl when she inquired if he needed food as well.

John blanched at the word friend and instantly it made him wish he had never agreed to come. They were not friends when one owned the other.

Sherlock continued to laugh with the girl and John’s hand curled into a fist under the table. This was wrong. This was so very wrong.

He turned his head to gaze outside and refused to speak until the girl had returned with the wine.

“What are we doing here?” His voice was terse.

Sherlock arched a single eyebrow and raised the cup to his full lips. In the low light, his dark hair and pale skin seemed even more contrasting like he was carved from marble. John cursed the gods and decided it might not be a good idea to drink the wine. He needed to be in complete control of himself. “What are we doing here, John?”

Great. More games. “You were going to show me what was written on the girl’s tablet.”

“All in due time.” He tipped his cup towards the slave. Or rather friend? “Drink, John. We may have a long night ahead of us.”

“A long night?” At the look on Sherlock’s face, John laughed. “Right. All in due time.”  
“So, John.” Sherlock’s long, white fingers caressed the wine cup as if he wanted to take another drink, but thought better of it. “Tell me about Britain.”

“Tell me what was written on the tablet.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Under the haze of the flickering oil lamps and feeling the warmth of the wine spreading through his body, the gesture was almost erotic: the long eyelashes and the gentle tip of the head backwards exposing the tall, pale neck. John gripped the wooden chair with curled fingers. He was going crazy. Legitimately crazy.

“Fine, John.We can sit in silence if you’d like. I thought you would want to fill our time with idle chatter.”

John’s lips curled in annoyance. “You’re the one who asked.”

The man shrugged and sipped the wine again. If they were waiting for something, or someone, he could only hope that Sherlock would still be in control of himself.

Sherlock tapped his fingers on the wooden table. John tried to watch the people passing by outside the tavern.

“I was on my way to being a healer in my village when the Roman army arrived. Rome was so far from my mind. People knew about the glory and beauty of Rome with its terrible slave owners and lack of grass within the city walls.”

A corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched upward as the only indication he had heard anything John said. His eyes were trained on the crowds of people walking by.

With a world weary sigh, John continued. “Healing civilians becomes less important when you have soldiers injured daily if not hourly. I worked for an elderly woman at that time. Before I was working for a man not much older than myself learning what we considered modern medicine. You might not. Edythe taught me the old world knowledge. When the soldiers came they wouldn’t take a nice old woman so they took me. Next thing I knew I was trained with a spear, sword, and bandages.”

Sherlock met John’s eyes and he wasn’t sure what he saw there. Pity? Did Sherlock actually feel sorry for him? That seemed almost impossible. 

“John, your proclivity for this line of work told Mycroft that you’re not haunted by the war; you miss it.”

John shrugged. “I thought you didn’t hear Mycroft when he offered me money to spy on you. Anyway I still didn’t want to-” 

He was cut off by Sherlock abruptly splashing wine on himself.

“What?” John stood up.

“Sit down and stay here.” Sherlock whispered harshly. He stumbled around the table until the serving girl noticed. She came striding over, pushing at Sherlock’s chest.

“Out!” She shouted. “You’re too drunk! Out!” Successfully pushing Sherlock outside, she gave John a subtle wink. “He’s good; just watch.”

Astonished, John turned to see what could possibly be going on. Sherlock looked impossibly drunk, far worse than what he had actually drank that night. It was all an act, but to what end?

Sherlock whipped his toga around his slight body as his head lolled around his neck. “Dionysus has favored me tonight, brothers!” John cringed.

Two men leaning against a wall, who John hadn’t noticed, opposite the tavern began to move towards Sherlock. They were carrying a litter and the slighter man appeared to be talking to Sherlock or at least attempting to. Sherlock still wobbled around on his feet, not too interested in the men.

The men raised the litter, obscuring Sherlock’s face from John. He stood up, chair painfully scraping on the stone floor. The serving girl stuck her arm out, “Just wait; he knows what he is doing.” Her lightly accented Latin intrigued John and she seemed far too pretty to be serving in a lower class tavern. It was a marked improvement on the one near Sherlock’s preferred opium den. 

John suddenly noticed that Sherlock had left behind the murdered girl’s tablet. Maybe there was some clue as to what was happening. He yanked at the ties.

There was no wax inside and the wood underneath was exposed. Tilting it in the light, John was able to distinguish a word amid the light scratches. “Asellina.”

What or who was Asellina? A friend? Another lover? He had the feeling that he had seen that name before, but where?

Damn it all. He had seen it only an hour before on the outside of the tavern. It was the name of the lovers’ meeting place. What was Sherlock playing at?

He refocused on his master. The litter was raised to full height and the man’s legs had disappeared. The men turned the litter and began to carry it away. The side that Sherlock had entered briefly faced John and the curtains were not completely closed. Was that a hand dangling from the litter? He rushed out pushing past the sudden throng of patrons. 

Was Rome always this crowded? Out in the street, slaves and citizens moved like the sea, carrying away the litter held high above the heads. 

Something struck John as he tried to dodge between cramped bodies. Was this the way they came? He hadn’t been paying much attention, trying to puzzle out landmarks. There were too many people!

If they were headed home, he could head them off and be waiting for Sherlock when he got back. If they weren’t, John was barely going to be able to keep up to make sure his master was safe. The two men carrying the litter were strong and tall, cutting through the crowd quite easily. Like John had learned before, crowds never parted for a slave. Never had he wanted a toga so badly before. 

As the sun sank behind the buildings, John had to make a decision. Nothing he could see around the people rushing around him looked even the slightest familiar. They weren’t taking Sherlock home. 

He stuck a hand out and stopped the nearest man. This didn’t go so well the last time, but he had no choice. “Please! Where am I?”

The man, a slave, laughed until John could smell the wine on his breath. “You’re headed straight for the Suburra, my friend!”

What had Sherlock done? Did he really offer himself as bait? John almost couldn’t believe he’d be so stupid, but he had just dragged the man out of an opium den. He wasn’t sure what he could believe anymore.

“Thank you!” He wrenched his hand out of the man’s grasp and took off down the street, weaving through the crowd the best he could. Sherlock was definitely in danger now.

The litter, a dusky blue that was beginning to blend into the darkening sky, seemed to be moving faster and faster.

John noticed a bright red door to his left. Struck by an idea, he abandoned Sherlock and set off down the alley.


	11. Chapter 11

John paced the wooden floor, hefting the spear from one hand to the other feeling its weight. In the army he learned that every spear flew differently and if he only had one shot, he had to make it count.

Through the window he saw the scene unfold. One of the litter bearers, the other had never entered the room, sat opposite a slumped over Sherlock. There was one cup on the table in front of Sherlock and wicked smile on the other man’s lips. 

He wanted to throw that spear right now, but in the short time he had known Sherlock, he knew that’s not what he would want. Sherlock couldn’t live without solving the mystery. John wanted to avenge the poor girl that had been lying in this building only a few days prior. He could easily do that with a spear right through the heart. 

Sherlock raised his head with great difficulty and John trained his eyes back into the room. The two adjacent buildings had windows that matched almost perfectly together. John had drawn the curtain across his own window to conceal his presence. He poked the tip of the spear barely through the part in the curtains, ready whenever he couldn’t wait anymore. 

He heard a slow, labored laugh from Sherlock. Even straining his ears he couldn’t pick up the conversation. He saw the litter bearer, who he was sure had to be the murderer at this point, hand something to Sherlock. 

It looked like… A pill? John couldn’t tell; it was too small. Sherlock inspected it between two fingers held up to the light.

Suddenly the murderer’s voice was loud enough for John to catch. “Valerius Flaccus, let’s play a game.”

John withdrew the spear tip farther into the room just in case the increase in volume had been for his benefit. 

Sherlock placed whatever it was back onto the table and they continued to converse in more hushed tones. John settled in for the wait. The tiles on the ceiling just seemed to be begging to be counted.

No sooner had he only begun his third count, best to be accurate, that he heard Sherlock say, “I’ll take you up on your little bet.”

Oh no he wouldn’t. John Watson didn’t believe in taking bets with murderers or letting his masters turned friends do so either.

Training his eyes back through the windows, he saw Sherlock raising the pill to his lips with the cup not far behind. It had been a while, but John brought the spear up near his ear and back, ready to let go.

Using all his strength, somewhat diminished by days spent lounging around a villa and not fighting for his life, he threw the spear at the man encouraging Sherlock.

Twin looks of shock appeared on the two men’s faces as the tip found its mark. His body had been twisted towards John’s hiding place just imperfectly enough for the spear to be a little too high and a little too much to the left.

Sherlock dropped the pill and scrambled back from the table. He looked around wildly. This hadn’t been a part of his plan. He rushed toward the man, now lying on the ground. The force of the impact had knocked the chair back.

He was still alive! Sherlock towered over him. “Did I get it right?”

The man groaned and turned his head to the side, refusing to answer.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Now was not the time to go silent. “Tell me if I was right or tell me who sent you!”

The man laughed, short and ugly. Sherlock swiftly lost his patience.

“You’re dying, make no mistake, but I can still hurt you. Tell me the name.”

Another laugh.

That’s it! Sherlock raised his foot and brought it down right next to the spear, pushing it to the side. “The name!”

He whimpered and shook his head furiously. 

“The name!” Sherlock repeated as he put even more weight on his foot. 

“Moriarty!” The man shouted.

John jumped through the two windows and rushed to his side. “Are you alright, Sherlock? I don’t know what you were about to do, but I wasn’t going to allow it.”

Sherlock looked down and saw the light fade from the man’s eyes as his head lolled to one side. He withdrew his foot. “I was fine! You ruined the plan!” A petulant bottom lip told John that his heroics weren’t quite being received like he thought they would.

“What plan? Dying? Being the next victim?”

Sherlock crouched on the floor, looking around for whatever he had dropped. “I wasn’t going to die. I almost figured it-”

“Almost!” John sighed loudly. He bent over the murderer, fingers in front of his mouth and nose to check for any signs of life. No breathing. Two fingers to the side of his neck confirmed the diagnosis. The man was dead; John had done his job, protecting Sherlock.

“How did you know where to find me?” Sherlock sat back, apparently giving up on finding the pill. A hand disappeared into the folds of his very ruffled toga.

“I recognized that the litter bearers weren’t taking you back to your villa so I followed you. A man on the street said I was headed towards the Suburra when I understood. They were going to take you close to where the girl was murdered and i remembered that there had been a few abandoned buildings around. It was only a matter of finding a good vantage spot to,” he gestured at the body, spear sticking out in a very gruesome manner. He was almost surprised that Sherlock was so calm. It was one thing to be able to handle a dead body, but another to watch a life be taken right in front of you.

“Astute, John. It seems you have learned something in my company. Come,” he stood up with a little difficulty. “I’m sure Lestrade will be here soon. Zeus knows we’ll have to show him to the body or he’ll never find it.”

“Lestrade!”

Sherlock nodded as he attempted to adjust his toga. “I told him what was going to happen before we left for the tavern. He is late as usual.” He swept out of the room, leaving John stunned.

As he followed Sherlock down the stairs, he didn’t know what to say. He wanted to be mad at Sherlock for putting his own life in danger, for putting John’s life in danger probably. 

“Why didn’t you tell me too?”

Sherlock didn’t pause as they continued downward. John decided these tenement buildings were too tall for their own good. “Then what would you learn, John? If we’re going to keep doing this together, I need you to be able to figure something out without my help. I can’t do all the work.” He threw John a wicked smile over his shoulder. “Ah, Lestrade! You missed all the action.”

Lestrade was standing at the bottom of the stairs arguing with men that John recognized from the poor girl’s murder. “Sherlock! What happened?”

Sherlock swept past him, eyeing up one of Lestrade’s assistants with the most disdain that was possible to put in a single look. “I’ll believe you’ll find that everything is in order upstairs. It’s all over now.”

“Over?” Lestrade was incredulous. John figured he had no right to be. “Did you catch him?”

“In a manner of speaking. A litter bearer!” He walked to the door. “You’re welcome, Lestrade. And tell Mycroft to stop propositioning my slaves the next time you see him.” The look of shock on Lestrade’s face was enough to make the whole case worth it for Sherlock.

John followed Sherlock out into the dusky evening. He thought that Rome was much more tolerable at this time of day. The atmosphere was cooler, it was much more pleasant smelling without all the garbage and human waste baking in the sun, and the flickering of the oil lamps threw a warm light everywhere. “A litter bearer. I can’t believe it!”

“And a terrible one at that! Should have seen the route he took to get me here.” A rare joke made the pair smile. John wanted to capture this moment forever.

They continued to walk slowly down the street, vaguely in the direction of Sherlock’s home. “It sure took you a long time to find me, John. I was about to take that pill.”

John shook his head. “Why you would do that is a mystery to me. I actually found you long before that.”

“Oh,” Sherlock pondered this. “You only killed him when you thought you had to. Very moral.”

Well that was a better excuse than the real answer. “Actually-”

“Never mind that.” He stopped and turned to John. “Dinner?”

He smiled. “Starving.”

“Good,” Sherlock suddenly set off down a side street. “I know this really great restaurant near home that serves good Greek food. You can always tell a good Greek establishment by-”

The alley had let out onto a major thoroughfare and John spotted someone. “Mycroft!” The target’s glare told John it probably wasn’t his place to go shouting at his master’s brother.

“Ah brother dear, whatever brings you to this part of Rome?” Sherlock’s whole demeanor shifted from adrenaline filled excitement for dinner to a smooth talking emulation of Mycroft.

Mycroft gave John a haughty glance that finally settled on his brother. “Business, brother dear,” he copied Sherlock’s sentiment with only a hint of snark.

“Lestrade’s just solved the murder.” John bit back a laugh at Sherlock’s clear bait.

“Oh?” Mycroft’s raised eyebrows read with false incredulity. 

“Well I solved it, but Lestrade was there for the cleanup. Don’t you just love it when your lover comes to call smelling like fresh corpse?” Sherlock jovially placed a hand on Mycroft’s shoulder who responded with a look of thinly veiled disgust.

“I’ll be sure to pass along your praise. It wouldn’t hurt you to be less aggressive, Sherlock. Did it ever occur to you that you and I belong on the same side?” 

John wasn’t sure if Mycroft was goading Sherlock or not, but he certainly did wish they had taken the next street over.

“Oddly enough, no!” Sherlock scoffed. Great, that was sure to put Mycroft in a good mood.

Mycroft shrugged off Sherlock’s hand. “Now, brother. This petty feud between us is simply childish. You know how it upsets Mother.”

John covered his laugh behind a cough. Evidently not well judging by the harsh looks from both Mycroft and Sherlock.

“It wasn’t me who upset her the last time.” Sherlock crossed his arms. That would certainly dispel the notion of a childish feud.

Mycroft shrugged as if he were pretending not to know who was actually to blame. “If you say so.”

Sherlock grabbed John’s arm. “Come, John. We’re getting dinner.”

“Oh yes,” Mycroft laughed. “Go off with your new pet and solve some more murders. That will make Mother proud.”

Sherlock marched away. “Go lose some weight, Mycroft!” He shouted over his shoulder.

John turned back to see Mycroft’s utterly sour expression. Sherlock nudged him to look forward again, smiling broadly.

“What are you so happy about? I wouldn’t say that was exactly a decisive victory over Mycroft.”

“He’s very sensitive about his weight.” His voice dropped to a whisper as a pack of togas brushed past them. “Moriarty.”

John hadn’t heard that word before. “What’s Moriarty?”

Sherlock clapped his hands. “I have absolutely no idea!”

John stared at him. What had he gotten himself into? After a while when Sherlock seemed lost in thought, his stomach rumbled. “So, Greek food?”

“Ah yes, let’s get some food. I dare say we deserve it. Good job today, John.”

John Watson took that little piece of praise and stowed it away for safekeeping. He still wasn’t entirely sure what it meant to be a slave and being owned by such an eclectic master sure didn’t help, but he knew praise didn’t come often.

Now about his feelings for Sherlock… Oh, that’s a story for another day.

Sherlock was getting ahead of him and John wasn’t one to be tardy to a meal. “Wait up!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YAY we're done!!! If I get some positive feedback and school somewhat relents the tide of homework, I will write another fic in this same world set after this one. Let me know if you guys would be interested! This was such a fun piece to write.

**Author's Note:**

> Leave comments if you'd like! Anything at all will prompt me to keep going.


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